The Way the World Ends
by The Marvelous Mad Madam Mim
Summary: When Quantico is attacked and two team members are stranded inside, the rest of the BAU are ordered off the case—because they are considered potential UNSUBs as well. Now they must race against the clock to prove their innocence and catch a killer. Has their worst nightmare become a reality?
1. Tick, Tick, Boom

**Tick, Tick…Boom.**

"_There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it."_

_~Alfred Hitchcock._

* * *

_***Author's Note: First of all, let me say this: Guys. Guys. GUYS. Y'all are the best. I started writing CM fics in 2013, and received one nomination (and one win!) for the 2013 Profiler's Choice Awards (for Pay the Piper, in case you were wondering). The 2014 Profiler's Choice Awards brought about FOURTEEN nominations in thirteen separate categories—and it's all because of YOU! Obviously, only five nominations can be chosen for the final ballot, and voting doesn't close until February, so I have no idea how well the chosen five stories will actually do—but I'm just amazed and so very grateful that you've all been so awesome and supportive of the work!**_

_**So my way of saying thanks: a brand new "big one"—and it's bigger than ever. This will be a two-part story, because there's just too much to cover for one fic (unless we wanna go like 100 chapters, and I'm really not about that life, yo). **_

_**Thank you, thank you, thank you a thousand times. And without further ado, let's get started on part one of this year's journey. Let's kick off with a bang, shall we?***_

* * *

Schuyler Adams was not a special agent, or even a probationary agent, or an analyst or an IT guy. He was an undergrad junior who'd scored a job as a courier for the FBI Quantico branch, because his dad was an analyst for the crime lab. It was a mundane, entry-level job made cool by the simple fact that he got to wear a badge with the FBI logo, and he got to work around a bunch of people with guns.

And because Schuyler was not an agent, he had an unwavering sense of faith in the system and he truly believed that by working at Quantico, he was actually safe from harm.

Sadly, Schuyler Adams was very much mistaken.

Today, there was already a stack of mail and small boxes waiting for him (all of which had passed the x-ray scans and explosives scans and every other precautionary measure short of opening the envelope or package), arranged neatly on the mailroom table. He sorted them by department and then began making his way through the halls, smiling and occasionally nodding to the people who walked by.

When analyzing any event, one must break it down into a series of points, points at which the course of such an event could have changed. The first point was the moment Schuyler loaded the items into his mail cart—if he'd been a little less careful with the package marked for the Behavioral Analysis Unit, things would have been a little different. However, young Schuyler was careful, and disaster was momentarily averted.

The second point was the fact that Technical Analyst Ariane Jamison woke up precisely 30 minutes late this particular morning, and she'd been running to catch up ever since. She was currently late for a briefing, and as such, she was practically sprinting down the hall, with little concern for her fellow employees. If she hadn't been late, she wouldn't have been running. If she hadn't been running, perhaps she wouldn't have stumbled into Schuyler Adams and his mail cart at full-force as she rounded the corner.

However, Ariane Jamison _was_ late, and she _did_ slam into Schuyler and his cart—and that, sadly was enough to jar the little inconspicuous package marked _Behavioral Analysis Unit._ In defense of the package, it did exactly what it was meant to do—its contents stirred and mixed together, and those chemicals erupted into a loud, horrific boom.

And Schuyler Adams and Ariane Jamison, as well as any other person within a 30 foot radius, were no more.

* * *

"_What we call the beginning is often the end__  
__And to make an end is to make a beginning.__  
__The end is where we start from."_

_~T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding._


	2. The End of the Beginning

**The End of the Beginning**

_"Beginnings are sudden, but also insidious. They creep up on you sideways, they keep to the shadows, they lurk unrecognized. Then, later, they spring."  
~Margaret Atwood._

* * *

Spencer Reid heard a strange sound—a dull thunk, like a heavy bookcase had fallen over on the floor above the conference room. He looked around, slightly concerned by the noise. After a few moments of silence, he returned his attention to the file on the table in front of him.

And then he heard the wail of sirens and the harsh buzz of the emergency alarm.

He cautiously rose to his feet, brown eyes wide with fear as adrenaline began to rush through his body. He opened the conference room door and looked around—the bullpen was empty, but the emergency exit lights were sending out short, bright bursts. He knew this wasn't a drill, simply because there wasn't an automated voice repeating over the intercom: _This is a drill. This is only a drill._

What the hell had happened?

* * *

Two minutes earlier, Jennifer Jareau had stepped onto the elevator, eyes glued to her phone's screen as she read a text from her husband. She briefly glanced up to give the person closest to the control panel a quick smile as she requested, "Sixth floor, please."

The man nodded and pressed the respective button. Two more people got on, more floor numbers were selected, and the elevator began its ascent.

Suddenly, there was a jerk, followed by the unpleasant sensation of falling—no one in the elevator had been prepared for the sudden stop, and everyone ended up on the floor, except for one guy, who had been quick enough to brace himself in the corner. The elevator itself was very still, and very quiet.

"Everyone OK?" The only man still standing asked shakily.

"I-I think so," responded the other woman, who was obviously a field agent, due to her black jeans and button-down shirt, and the Glock strapped to her waist. She looked at her companion, who must have been an agent as well (the guns were always a dead give-away). "Lloyd, y'okay?"

"Yeah," he winced as he rubbed his wrist. "Pretty sure it's just a sprain."

"Ma'am?" Standing Man looked over at JJ, who was slowly pulling herself to her feet.

"I hit my head," she responded flatly, her fingers lightly touching the lovely knot that she could already feel forming around her left temple. She felt something warm and sticky and knew it was blood. More tentative pressure from her fingertips discovered a cut just above her left eyebrow. She glanced down—she must have hit the metal handrail that ran at waist-height around the entire elevator.

It took her a moment to register that her coffee had also spilled down the front of her blouse—luckily it was only luke-warm now, but her lovely creme silk blouse was drenched and sticking to her skin. She swore under her breath.

"That does not look good," Standing Man moved towards her, his face filled with concern as he inspected the wound.

"You're telling me—this is vintage Hermes," she looked down woefully at her blouse, trying to lessen the tension with a joke.

The other two agents smiled at her dry humor, but Standing Man did not. She noted the visitor's tag around his neck and saw the Military Police badge clipped to his belt. No wonder he didn't appreciate her fine wit—MP's weren't exactly known as the most mellow people in the world.

He glanced down at the blouse in question and his cheeks reddened. JJ suddenly realized that her now-soaked top was completely see-through when wet.

This day was already off to a fabulous start.

* * *

The boom sounded eerie from inside the stairwell as Kate Callahan hurried up the stairs, like hearing the sound of a firework exploding while underwater, but she didn't pay much attention—everything always sounded weird and distant in the stairwell.

The sound that got her attention was the sudden stop of the elevators. There was a horrible shrieking metallic sound as the heavy steel cables ground to halt, and a few cries of surprise that could be heard through the walls. She stopped, looking suspiciously at the ceiling, as if she could discern what was happening on the floors above her.

After what seemed like several minutes (but was actually only a few seconds), the nerve-grating buzz of the emergency system filled the air. She stood there, not sure whether to continue upward or to turn around and exit the building.

True to her nature, she kept going.

By the time she'd reached her floor, the fire alarms had begun to shriek as well, and she looked around, trying to find the source.

Derek Morgan breezed by her, his face set in an expression of concern, "Go back the way you came, dollface. We've gotta get out of here."

* * *

Aaron Hotchner took a moment to glance around the bullpen, dark eyes scanning for anyone who might have been left behind—whatever had happened, it didn't seem to affect their floor, but it never hurt to be cautious.

Satisfied that he was the last person in the suite, he headed for the nearest stairwell, slipping into a stream of people. Snatches of conversation swirled around him, distorted by sirens.

"What do you think happened?"

"Some kind of explosion—"

"Has to be the ninth floor, we're on seven and we felt a rattle—"

The sprinkler system activated, and there were a few cries of surprise at the sudden shower. Thankfully, no one panicked, though the general pace of the crowd picked up.

"Shit, there's a fire?"

"Maybe one of the alarms just got damaged—"

"Did you see Clark before we left?"

"I thought he was with you—"

"What the hell—"

"How could anyone get anything past our scanners?"

The last question stuck with Hotch—he knew the answer, though he wasn't going to say it out loud.

This had to be an inside job. Whatever it was.

Once he reached the first floor, the crowd dispersed more openly, though everyone still headed for the main exits. Outside, people were being corralled to the side, where the security personnel and Marines from the base were already assembling and preparing to re-enter the building with paramedics and other rescue workers.

Hotch squinted in the early morning sun, scanning the sea of bobbing heads for the familiar faces of his team.

However he saw another familiar face first—Scott O'Donnell, the Special Agent in Charge, better known as the SAC, of the Quantico branch. At first glance, O'Donnell looked like your average trust-fund-frat-boy-turned-suit, with his clean-cut face, crooked smirk, and always-mussed brown hair, but Hotch knew that underneath that unassuming façade was a sharp mind and nerves of steel, both necessary traits for holding down the little empire of the FBI Academy at Quantico. His second virtue was in full effect, for the SAC looked only mildly perturbed, as if today's event was of no greater consequence than a rained-out round of golf.

"What happened?" Per usual, Aaron Hotchner did not waste time with pleasantries.

"Dunno for sure," O'Donnell grimaced, obviously not pleased with his own answer. He glanced back at the building, "Some kinda explosion, that's all we know so far. Marines are gearing up for a search and rescue as soon as we get everybody else out. Right now it's just a big cluster-fuck."

"Do we know where it hit?"

O'Donnell nodded, "Security data shows that the smoke detectors were set off on the ninth floor—the sprinklers went off all over the building, but the computer can pinpoint exactly where the alarms were triggered. So there's one ray of sunshine on a bleak horizon."

Hotch nodded in understanding—it was a safety measure that also narrowed down their target area as well.

"I need to find my team," Hotch stated, somewhat unnecessarily.

His SAC gave a curt nod, "Just don't freak out if you're missing someone—the elevators immediately shut down when the alarms went off, so obviously there are some agents and personnel trapped in the lifts. We've got to shut down the power, and override the system so that the emergency generators don't come on—there's bound to be electrical damage from the blast and I can't have our people running into a live-wire while they're trying to save someone else's life. It'll take a few minutes, but the rescue teams will be getting everyone out as soon as possible. No need for stupid heroics from you or any of your people."

Hotch had to give a grim smile at the last warning—O'Donnell knew his team too well. If any of them thought for a single second that another team member was in danger, they'd rush back into the building, warnings and fire and Marines be damned.

O'Donnell suddenly whirled around, barking at a Marine as he gestured towards the parking lot, where more agents were arriving (presumably for what they all had thought was going to be just another day at the office). "Keep those people back! We need to keep the incoming personnel separated from the ones who were already here."

This only confirmed the suspicion that Hotch had in the stairwell.

O'Donnell turned back to him with a sigh, slightly surprised that Hotchner was still standing there.

The behavioral analyst's dark eyes were like a hawk's, never missing a single beat, "You're thinking the same thing—whoever did this had to be on the inside."

"As much as I'd like to pretend it couldn't be possible, there's really no other way," O'Donnell let out a deep breath. "We've been compromised. Whoever did this is here, right now."

There was a shift in O'Donnell's expression as he quietly added, "And for all I know, it could be you."

Hotch simply returned his gaze, calmly asking, "Do you honestly think I would do something like this?"

"Honestly? I didn't think anyone in this building could be capable of bombing his or her own people. But obviously, I was mistaken. And a day like today doesn't leave room for mistakes."

* * *

"Don't take this the wrong way," Morgan warned, looking down at Callahan. "But I need to put you on my shoulders."

"What?" Kate's expression filled with confusion.

"We need to find the rest of the team—the fastest way to do it is to get to a high vantage point and scan the crowd."

She suddenly nodded in comprehension, patting Morgan's shoulder, "Good idea. Hoist me up."

He obliged, wrapping his arms around her knees and lifting her with ease. She steadied herself by gripping his shoulders, craning her neck as she tried to find the rest of the BAU amidst the crowd.

"I see Reid," she waved her arm, trying to catch the young doctor's attention. She called his name a few times, and he finally spotted her, giving a wave of his own hand to signal that he was headed towards her.

"What about the others?" Derek was trying to keep her lifted without engaging in inappropriate contact, but this particular position wasn't exactly conducive to personal space.

"Um…ah, there's Hotch, up near the front of the crowd. Looks like he's with O'Donnell."

She tapped his shoulder again, signaling for him to let her down. Once her feet were on solid ground, she turned back in the direction that she'd spotted Reid. "That still leaves JJ, Garcia, and Rossi unaccounted for."

"Where's everybody else?" Reid appeared, looking around anxiously.

"Hotch is up ahead," Morgan nodded in that general direction. "We'll go see what he knows."

Reid's cell began to buzz. He pulled it from his pocket, feeling an odd mixture of relief and apprehension when he saw _JJ_ on the caller ID.

"Where are you? Are you OK?" He couldn't keep his voice from becoming high and quick, his tell whenever he was nervous or excited.

"We're OK, Spence," JJ's voice was shaky. Reid could hear sirens in the background.

"JJ, are you still inside the building?" Reid's momentary relief skyrocketed back into adrenaline-fueled fear.

Morgan and Callahan immediately looked at one another, both on-alert for Reid's next words.

"Yeah, we're—the elevator stopped when the sirens went off, so we're stuck here. But they've already called us on the emergency phone inside the elevator and told us that they're coming to get us."

"When?" Reid tried to look back at the building, where he knew the Marines and rescue workers were assembling.

"As soon as possible, Spence. Look, I just didn't want you guys to freak out—"

"I think we're well past that point, JJ."

He heard her give something between a sigh and a frustrated chuckle. "I'm safe; I promise. I just wanted to check on everyone else."

"So far, we've got me, Morgan, and Callahan—we're making our way to Hotch now."

"So…Rossi and Garcia are the only two we're missing?"

"Yep," Reid bit his bottom lip, straining to see above the throng. "You'd think that given her wardrobe and hairstyle, she'd be easy to spot in a crowd of agents, but surprisingly, she's not."

JJ laughed at the observation, a skittering thing of relief and jumbled nerves.

Morgan was already on his cell, mouth set in a thin line of worry as he waited for his Babygirl to answer his call.

It went to voicemail.

"Garcia's not picking up," Morgan announced.

"I'll call you back as soon as we know something else," Reid promised JJ.

Callahan motioned to the entrance, "They're sending in the rescue teams now."

"Hey, JJ, tell the rest of your group that help's on the way—they're going in now."

"OK, Spence. I'll see you soon."

"Just be careful, OK?" There was a note of something deeper than just general worry for her safety, and JJ knew its source—just a few weeks ago, Spencer had confronted her about her downward spiral at the impending one-year anniversary of her kidnapping and torture at the hands of Tivon Askari. He still feared that she'd do something reckless (again) and that perhaps this time, she wouldn't be so lucky.

She wanted to snap at him, to berate him for bringing up her own self-destructive tendencies at a time like this, but she forced the angry words down and tried to remember that he loved her and she loved him as she quietly returned, "You, too."

Morgan had called Penelope a second time by now. "Still no answer."

"She may have left her phone at her desk," Kate suggested.

Derek Morgan didn't look convinced. Instead, he gave a slight shake of his head and plunged through the sea of people, making a beeline for his unit chief.

"Have you seen JJ and Garcia?" Hotch asked as soon as he saw them.

"JJ's in one of the elevators," Reid supplied. "What about Rossi?"

"He's not supposed to come in for another half-hour," Hotch glanced at his watch. "A meeting with his editor, something like that."

"Penelope's not answering her phone," Morgan informed him. "And so far, we haven't spotted her in the crowd."

"She should stand out pretty easily," Hotch mused dryly. Returning back to his usual serious air, he glanced at the building again. "She could be in an elevator as well. Or out in the parking lot—they're keeping the incoming agents separated from those who were already inside when it happened."

"And what was _it_, exactly?" Callahan asked, crossing her arms over her chest. "I've heard rumors and suppositions—some are saying it's just a fire, some are saying a bomb. From what I heard in the stairwell, I'd guess it was an explosion of some sort."

"That seems to be the prevailing theory." Hotch's lips pressed into a thin line.

"The more important question is: why did this happen?" Reid looked around, tightening his grip on the strap of his leather messenger bag (because _of course_ he hadn't left the building without his beloved bag). "I mean, who could pull this off?"

"We'd have to know who the target was first," Morgan pointed out. It was Victimology 101—you understood the motives and identity of the UNSUB through his or her relationship to the victim.

"I've been trying to figure that out," Hotch admitted. "And I have to admit, I don't like the odds."

"They're not in our favor," Callahan guessed. "Of all the units stationed at Quantico, we're the ones most likely to draw the attention of an UNSUB."

Her unit chief gave a grim nod.

He was right, of course—Quantico was first and foremost the home of the FBI Academy, and as such most of the units were part of the training division. However, it also happened to house four units that were not training units: the BAU, the Technology Services Unit, the Data Intercept Technology Unit, and the Forensic Science Research Center. Considering the fact that the remaining three dealt with graphics and IT, wire-tapping, and forensics, respectively, they tended to stay out of the public eye and off most criminal radars, unlike their companion unit Behavioral Analysis.

"We could be completely wrong," Morgan played devil's advocate. "It could have been a simple attack on the FBI in general. The main headquarters are in D.C., but the general public tends to think of Quantico as the home base."

"For all we know, there could have been similar attacks on other field offices," Callahan gestured towards Derek, as if backing up his theory.

"We're definitely in the dark," Hotch agreed, glancing around again. "So until we know something further, let's sit tight and see what else comes up."

Morgan turned to look out at the crowd behind them, squinting in the early morning sun, "We should focus on finding Penelope."

* * *

David Rossi took another sip of his coffee before reaching over to turn off the soothing jazz on the radio. Part of his morning ritual always included a few minutes of silence in the car, his last moments to collect his thoughts before plunging back into the world of the BAU. He'd definitely need the time to center himself this morning—God only knew how long he'd have to spend looking for a parking space at this hour. Normally he was the first guy at the office, but today he'd had breakfast with his editor to go over his next book, which pushed him back to arriving at prime time with the rest of the day shift.

The instant that Quantico came into view, he knew that something was wrong. There was a large crowd outside the main building, all huddled together and static, as if waiting for something.

That's when his eyes traveled upwards, towards the main building itself. At first glance, there was nothing. Then, he noticed the ninth floor—a few windows were cracked, one looked like it might be blown out, though he couldn't be sure from this distance.

Then he heard the scream of sirens as the ambulances and fire trucks arrived from the opposite direction, blowing down the main drive with the reckless abandon that only emergency vehicles can possess.

His first thought was for his team—by now, everyone should be at their desks, preparing for another long day in the trenches.

The parking spot was forgotten—he accelerated, getting as close to the building as he could before pulling his car to one side of the lane and slamming it into park, abandoning his coffee in favor of his gun and his cell phone.

He was stopped by a Marine before he could reach the main throng.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we have orders to route all incoming personnel to a separate location."

David simply nodded, his dark eyes still focused on the scene behind the Marine. He was given directions, which he waved away with a distracted hand as he pulled out his phone and began dialing Hotch's number.

"This is Hotchner." Obviously, Aaron hadn't even taken the time to glance at his caller ID before answering.

"Hotch, it's Dave. What the hell is going on here?"

Aaron quickly filled him in, finishing with JJ's current location and Garcia's MIA status.

"I'll keep an eye out for Garcia," Rossi promised, heading in the direction indicated by the Marine.

"I'll let you know when we've got JJ," Hotch replied in turn.

Dave gave a frustrated sigh and swore under his breath as he hung up, running his hand through his hair. It was already bad enough, but being completely quarantined from his team only made the situation worse.

He glanced around, looking for a familiar face. He saw Carrington, the blue-eyed brunette who had once been Erin Strauss' assistant and receptionist.

"Agent Rossi," Carrington gave a relieved smile when she saw him. "Glad to see you're OK."

"Anyone saying what's happened yet?" Rossi asked more out of curiosity than confusion (Hotch had already told him, but he was interested to see what people on the outside were saying).

The young woman shrugged a thin shoulder, "I've heard just about every theory from a pipe bursting to international terrorists; take your pick."

He suddenly remembered why he liked her so much. She could be a bit neurotic at times, but she generally hid all emotions under a good, thick layer of sarcasm and nonchalance.

"Dora!" Another office assistant called out, and Carrington cringed. David recalled that she'd been named after the famous painter, Dora Carrington, and since a certain children's show about a certain explorer had appeared on the scene, Carrington had insisted on being referred to by her last name. As always, David had to wonder what kind of parents named their daughter after someone who'd killed herself with a shotgun, but who was he to judge?

"Gotta go," Carrington smiled regretfully. Over her shoulder, she added, "I really am glad you're OK."

He watched her delicately pick her way across the grass in her high heels, attempting to soothe a rather dramatic coworker who seemed to be enjoying the catastrophe just a bit too much, in Rossi's opinion. Of course, there always were those types, whenever disaster occurred. Professional hysterics, he called them. They lived for the chance to become wild with grief. Same basic psychotic makeup as the people who claimed responsibility for crimes they didn't commit in hopes of gaining attention. In short, they were annoying as hell, but not deadly.

Seeing an opportunity to get a little leg work started, Rossi began scanning the faces assembled around him, looking for the smallest of signs that someone here might have had prior knowledge of the attack. Right now, he was stuck at the barricade, but once the smoke cleared, the BAU would undoubtedly be called in to investigate.

He hoped that Hotch and the others were doing the same.

* * *

JJ's shirt was now cold as well as wet, which was even more uncomfortable. She tried not to remember the last time she was in a small space with a drenched shirt, arms hoisted above her head as jolts of electricity were shot through her body—instead, she tried to focus on the mundane and the minute. Aside from the coffee stain, a few drops of blood from the cut on her temple had gotten onto the shoulder of the blouse, and she had accepted the grim reality that it was ruined forever.

However, a ruined blouse was the least of her current worries. Spencer had just sent a text saying that the rescue team had finally entered, and she felt a prickle of relief—though she knew that this was only the beginning. Once she was out of here, she'd have to join her team and begin piecing together what really happened and who made it happen. The likelihood of it being an outside force was slim, and she didn't look forward to the possibility of proving a fellow agent to be a domestic terrorist.

Of course, there was also the matter of finding the rest of her team—she remembered Rossi mentioning a meeting with his editor yesterday, which would explain his absence this morning, but the matter of Penelope's whereabouts was still unsolved. Garcia usually came in a half-hour earlier than they did, in order to go over the latest requests for assistance and sort out her choices before the daily morning briefing.

_Oh, god_. JJ's stomach suddenly dropped. Sometimes, if the case load was too much or if there was something else that demanded a closer look, Garcia would discuss it with their section chief, Mateo Cruz.

Cruz's office was on the ninth floor.

The floor that had just been bombed.

* * *

"_The worst dream of the night, when you are parted from someone you love and you do not know exactly where [s]he is, but you know that [s]he is in the presence of danger. You are tormented by a desire to keep the one you love safe."__  
__~Whitney Otto__._

* * *

_***Author's Note: So…for all my research, I still can't definitively say that Quantico actually has a SAC. We know they have a section chief, which in the FBI hierarchy is on the same command level as a SAC, but their roles are slightly different. So I decided to add a SAC and here we are. But if anyone truly knows the answer, please let me know!  
If you've read Out of Africa, you know I like "casting" actors in the OC roles. For Scott O'Donnell, let's think of Nathan Fillion, shall we?**_

_**The character Carrington is also seen in Pay the Piper. She was one of my fave OCs from that story, even though her role was relatively small. I don't think I ever mentioned her real-life basis, so for reference, think Jessica Collins (the one from Zero Dark Thirty, not the one from The Young and the Restless).***_


	3. It's Not the Fall That Kills You

**It's Not the Fall That Kills You**

"_There's no such thing as love __without the anticipation of loss."_

_~Andrew Solomon._

* * *

"This is taking too long," Spencer glanced down at his watch for what must have been the thousandth time in a matter of minutes.

"I agree," Morgan kept his gaze straight ahead, standing stock-still as his eyes continued scanning the bobbing, weaving crowd of FBI personnel.

They were talking about two different events—Spencer was anxiously awaiting JJ's safe return, while Morgan did the same for Penelope.

Callahan pushed her way through the crowd again, shaking her head in frustration, "I went all the way to the parking lot and back; I'm not seeing Garcia."

Morgan glanced down at his phone—he wanted to call, although he knew it would go straight to voicemail, just as it had the dozen times before. Instead, he dialed Rossi's number.

"Anything?" He asked as soon as Rossi answered.

"She's not over here," Rossi informed him, his own voice lined with frustration and worry.

"Dammit," Morgan looked around again, fighting back the urge to run through the crowd, screaming Penelope's name until his bubbly Babygirl magically popped up with her bright smile and some smart-ass remark.

"She's gonna be OK," Rossi assured him.

Derek made some noise of agreement and hung up. Kate was at his side, her face telling him that she didn't want to say what came next, "She…she has to be inside, Morgan. But that doesn't mean she's not safe. She could be trapped in an elevator or something."

It was the 'or something' that bothered Morgan the most. With a shake of his head, he admitted, "I don't like not knowing."

"I know," Kate's voice was soft, understanding.

Meanwhile, Spencer had wandered away slightly, frowning over his cell phone as he texted back and forth with JJ. He came back to them, his brow furrowed in concern.

"I asked JJ what was taking so long—she said there's something wrong with the elevator."

* * *

The sirens finally stopped, and suddenly it seemed much too quiet—as if a single heavy breath could shatter the air around them.

JJ exchanged uneasy glances with the other occupants, unsure of what this meant.

Then the lights went out. There were a few seconds of anxious shuffling as all four got their cellphones and used them as flashlights.

"The power's out," Mr. Military Police stated the obvious.

"Not exactly standard procedure," Lloyd, the other field agent, commented. "Usually, they just turn off the operating mechanism for the elevator—you know, just in case it suddenly decides to start working again while someone's trying to climb out or open the emergency hatch."

His eyes traveled to the ceiling tiles, behind which must lay the escape hatch.

"The explosion upstairs probably made the electrical systems unstable," JJ pointed out. "Better to shut everything off rather than take the risk."

Everyone made small noises of agreement. Lloyd stepped to the side to inspect a ceiling tile, and the elevator suddenly gave a warning groan. Fear ran like wildfire through each and every vein. A heavy silence reigned.

"That must mean they have everyone else out," Mr. Military Police decided, his voice breaking the stillness awkwardly. "The only people left inside are the ones like us, stuck in elevators."

"And the ones too injured by the bomb blast," the female agent commented, her eyes instinctively going to the ceiling.

That thought only increased the somber mood of the elevator.

"The search and rescue teams should be here soon," JJ reminded them—she'd been relaying Spencer's information to the rest of the group.

"Good," Lloyd commented. "Then we can get out of here and figure out what the hell happened."

There was a thunderous sound that seemed oddly below them—heavy boots, a lot of them. Everyone breathed a sigh of collective relief at the realization that the rescue team had arrived.

A heavy pounding echoed on the wall below them, followed by a deep voice calling out, "Anyone in there?"

"We're here!" Mr. Military Police called back.

"Stand back," the voice on the other side commanded. "We're opening the doors now."

The elevator occupants shifted closer together instinctively, trying to ignore the car's metallic objections at the sudden shift of weight as their eyes remained glued to the door.

Metal groaned and protested under the rescue team's efforts. Then came the wonderful, wonderful sound of the doors opening.

Except the inner elevator door didn't open.

"What's going on?" JJ asked, looking to her companions.

There was some muffled exchange between the rescuers, then the leader's voice called out again, "Your car is stuck between floors."

That explained why it sounded as if the knocks and the footsteps came from below their feet.

"We're going to get you out; don't worry. It's just going to take a little more time. We're going to open the emergency hatch in the ceiling—but first, we need to double-check that all power supply is off, just in case. We're going up to the next floor to open the doors and enter from the top."

JJ's phone buzzed. It was Spence, checking in. Lord knows she loved that man and understood his concern, but this really wasn't a good time.

_Still OK. Elevator stuck. Problem for SAR team._ She tapped out a quick text before slipping the phone into her back pocket again. She turned back to Mr. Military Police, "Let's make this as quick as possible. I need you to lift me up so that I can remove the ceiling tiles and get the hatch open—that way as soon as the other set of doors is open, we can get out of here."

The MP nodded, going down on one knee so that JJ could sit on his shoulder.

"Here," Lloyd shifted next to him, creating a wider platform that allowed JJ to sit further back, resting the back of each thigh on each man's shoulder. Cellphones still in flashlight mode were set to the side, lights pointing upwards to illuminate the ceiling. The two men counted down and rose unsteadily to their feet. The other female agent grabbed JJ's shins, helping to steady her as she reached up for the ceiling.

The constant movement only increased the elevator car's ominous creaks, and JJ pushed back the quiver of fear that shuddered from her stomach to her spine.

_Don't focus on the situation, just focus on getting out of it._

The metallic grates covering the lights were easily removed and handed off to the female agent, who laid them against the wall. Between the two rows of fluorescent bulbs was the hatch—there wasn't a handle, merely a set of hinges to indicate which way it should open. With a deep breath, JJ put as much force as she could into her arms, slamming upwards to jolt the hatch open slightly.

"What the hell?" She gritted her teeth and tried again.

"What's wrong?" The female agent asked, instantly aware that something was off.

"It's—it's like it's stuck or something," JJ couldn't keep the frustration from her voice. She knew that upper body strength wasn't exactly her best asset, but she was practically useless when it came to opening the hatch.

"Wait," she suddenly had an idea. Looking down at the other woman, she instructed, "Come stand behind me. I'm gonna lean back so I can kick it open."

The woman nodded, moving behind the two men and reaching her hands up to steady JJ's shoulders as she slowly leaned backwards, shifting so that her hands were gripping the men's shoulders as her body's center of balance transferred from her legs to her hips and stomach.

Lloyd and MP's hands immediately came up to steady her hips and grasp her hands.

"And I thought I wouldn't get my workout in today," she joked dryly, trying to ease the tension.

With a deep, shaky breath to steel herself (man, this was killer on her abs), she bent her knees and pushed against the door with all her might.

It moved. Not completely open, but further than it had before. The entire elevator car shook and trembled at the action, reminding everyone that they were suspended in mid-air.

"One more time, you've got it," Lloyd encouraged her. She could tell from the strain in his voice that he wouldn't be able to hold her much longer. She also didn't like the idea of making the elevator even more unstable by all her kicking and banging, but they didn't have a choice if they wanted to get out of here.

Another deep breath, another hard pump of the legs, and the hatch was free.

There was a small round of breathless cheers as they set JJ back on her feet—a sound quickly cut short by the louder and more insistent rumble of the elevator.

The search and rescue team had made it to the next floor—the now-familiar sounds of the shaft doors being pried open filled the darkened air.

JJ took another deep breath, trying to prepare for the frightening moment to come. She'd have to climb out of this groaning, shaking thing and onto the next floor landing—it would be scary as hell, as if the situation needed any added stress.

For some reason, it was Derek Morgan's voice echoing in her head, _You can do anything you put your mind to, Lil Mama. Just do it._

She gave a wry smile—Derek Morgan as her guardian angel, who'd have expected that?

"Alright, we're in," came the lead rescuer's voice again—the light from the hallway spilled through the now-open hatch. "We're sending a guy onto the top of the elevator. He's going to help you onto the roof. One person at a time, and wait until he tells you to go."

A younger man carefully slipped over the side of the landing, gingerly setting his feet onto the top of the elevator.

There was a loud warning groan, and the elevator shifted downward slightly. Cries of surprise and dismay rang out from both directions, and the young man was quickly pulled back to safety by his team mates.

"Shit," the team leader looked upwards, shining his light into the shaft. "The locking mechanisms are on the top floor—they must have been damaged by the blast."

"What are we gonna do?" Lloyd called up. "We can't just stay in here."

"Sit tight. We'll get you out," the team leader assured them. "But just in case something happens—you're between floors two and three. If the elevator falls, brace for impact. It won't feel pretty, but you will survive."

JJ pressed her lips together to keep them from quivering. She suddenly felt the animalistic panic that she'd tried so hard to keep at bay clawing at her lungs, forcing its way up her throat. Helplessness fueled hysteria and hot tears edged her eyes.

She needed out of here. She needed out _now_.

* * *

Aaron Hotchner turned to watch the mobile command center wind its way up the main drive, parking what would tactically be considered a safe distance from the building, just in case there was a secondary explosion. He sidled up to Scott O'Donnell again, quietly asking, "Who's going to run point on the investigation?"

His SAC gave a weary sigh, "I've called in a team from the Richmond field office, plus a bomb analysis unit from New York."

He glanced over his shoulder to give Hotch an apologetic look, "We can't be the ones handling this, Hotch. I know, every fiber in your being screams to catch this son of a bitch, but this time around, we have to sit back and let someone else do the job."

"You know I can't do that," Hotch informed him, his tone as neutral and calm as possible. "Personal feelings aside, the BAU is going to be a vital part in profiling and ultimately capturing this UNSUB. Do you honestly believe that a bunch of bomb techs can do my team's job?"

"And what if one of your team is the UNSUB?" O'Donnell turned to face him fully now, crossing his arms over his chest. He cocked his head to the side questioningly. "What if he or she turns the profile down a wrong path, throws a red herring into the case on purpose?"

"I can vouch for every single one of them."

"Yeah. And half a dozen agents would have vouched for John Curtis' innocence up until the moment he killed Erin Strauss." O'Donnell wasn't trying to be combative—in fact, the understanding in his eyes was unmistakable.

Aaron wanted to argue that this was different. But he knew the only way to win such an argument was to prove it, beyond all doubt—something that wouldn't be possible until O'Donnell came face-to-face with the real UNSUB in handcuffs and a mountain of evidence.

His SAC was still watching his every move. With an almost-amused expression, he asked, "You're not really going to just let it go, are you?"

Hotch chose honesty, "No, sir. But I also won't argue with you about it."

Scott O'Donnell merely shook his head with a sigh. He knew that was the best he was going to get from Aaron Hotchner. The BAU chief had a reputation for being an honorable man (one might even go so far as to call him _noble_), but Christ on a cracker, he could be one stubborn bastard when he put his mind to it.

The two-way radio in his hand suddenly crackled.

"SAR Team Three reporting."

"Go ahead, Three," O'Donnell radioed back, his brow furrowing in concern.

"We've got a situation here with the southeastern elevators. The cars' pulley system must be close to the blast origin—it appears to be damaged and unstable. One car's empty, but the other still has four people inside."

Hotch couldn't help but overhear, and he felt a ripple of fear wash over his skin. He turned back to Spencer.

"Did JJ say which elevator she's in?"

* * *

David Rossi craned his neck, trying to get a good look at the people being brought out by the search and rescue teams—there were a few blondes, but none of them were JJ. As more and more people came out, his anxiety went higher and higher.

She should be fine. She should be able to walk out of that building on her own. She should have already walked out. She could be one of the people on a stretcher, but she wasn't.

The next group to exit would be the ones in body bags. He couldn't cope with that reality. He'd lost too many people in this line of work; he couldn't lose another—he couldn't lose a young mother of a sweet young boy who had fought like hell and survived so much worse. He couldn't lose a kind spirit with gentle hands and gentle eyes who'd sometimes been the brightest spot among the horizons of his darkest days when he grappled with other losses.

He began praying to God and every saint he could remember.

_Please, bring all my people back safely_._ Please._

* * *

"Alright," the rescue team leader called down into the elevator shaft again. "We are tossing a body harness into the hatch. Once each person is secured, we'll hoist them up. Right now, I need everybody to move into the corners of the elevator—we don't want the metal buckles from the harness to hit anyone when we toss it in."

The occupants did as instructed, each picking a corner to retreat into (an action that only further emphasized the instability of the car).

There was a loud metallic thump on the ceiling, followed by a light curse. The harness was pulled up again, thrown again, and this time, it made it into the hatch. The buckles were heavy enough to bring the entire thing to the floor with a clang.

"I should go last," Mr. Military Police glanced at the others. "I've got the best upper body strength here, so I can help everyone else get through—and it'll be easiest for me to stabilize myself when it's my turn."

Everyone nodded in agreement. Lloyd picked up the harness and motioned for his partner, "C'mon, Cheryl. You go first."

Cheryl spared an uncertain glance at JJ, who merely waved her on (despite her inner voice screaming for escape). Within a matter of seconds, Cheryl was securely strapped in.

"Hoist me up!" She called out, bracing herself for the first tug.

Lloyd and the MP kept her steady as she began swaying upwards. Cheryl was able to place her hands on either side of the hatch, and the rescue team paused to let her pull herself up onto the roof. She gingerly made her way across the top, each step eliciting an ominous sound from the elevator car.

There was still a good five to six feet between the roof and the next floor. Cheryl moved closer before gripping the harness line, preparing for the next lift.

And Cheryl made one very small mistake with very big consequences.

Out of sheer instinct, as soon as she began to lift, she pushed her feet against the top of the elevator.

The sound that came next would haunt her for years to come.

* * *

"_It's not the fall that kills you; it's the sudden stop at the end."_

_~Douglas Adams__._


	4. Right Place, Wrong Time

**Right Place, Wrong Time.**

"_I again saw under the sun that the race is not to the swift and the battle is not to the warriors, and neither is bread to the wise nor wealth to the discerning nor favor to men of ability; for time and chance __overtake them all."_

_~Ecclesiastes 9:11, NASB._

* * *

_**Earlier That Morning.**_

Penelope Garcia's orange pumps pulsed softly against the carpet as she power-walked her way through the maze of hallways. As usual, her bejeweled fingers clasped several manila folders, all filled with gruesome pictures of gruesome cases with gruesome details that would generally make any other person give up their faith in humanity. While she never really learned how to detach herself from the horror enclosed in these files, she never let them take away her hope, either.

She was a woman of faith—not in the say-a-prayer, cross-your-self, wear-the-saints-pendant kind of way, not in the way that most people assumed when the words _person of faith_ were used, but a woman of absolute and undying faith nonetheless.

She had faith in her team. She had faith in the people they were, in the work that they did, in their ability to use their empathy and their compassion as a driving force for good in a never-ending battle against the darkness of the world, her little band of bright and darling lights. She had faith in their abilities, in their strengths and even their weaknesses, in their daring and their methods and their refusal to give up or give in.

Even when her optimism wavered, she always found a moment, a jewel of a quiet moment in which one of her team restored that faith and reaffirmed her belief that there truly were good people in the world. It was a warm and deep certainty that no cathedral, no stained glass window, no hymn, no prayer had ever given her, yet she loved it with the same whole-hearted reverence as those who felt such feelings from such things.

Still, this faith did not make her job any easier. Right now, she had six cases that required immediate attention, but one team that could only be in one place at one time. She had narrowed the list down to four, after a very late night of agonizingly weighing pros and cons and manpower and things that shouldn't have anything to do with saving people from monsters—but no matter how much she analyzed and re-analyzed and pushed and shoved, she couldn't choose just one of the remaining cases.

She was going to have to talk to Cruz about it. He was much more analytical, much more clinical than she could ever hope to be—a trait that was both upsetting and necessary, from her point of view. Sometimes she cringed at how easily he could dismiss a request, but she also knew that he was the man who had to live with making the hard choices, and at times, she'd even used him as a way to assuage her own guilt about turning down a case, so she couldn't really be that critical of his nature if she was occasionally using it to her conscience's advantage.

She entered the reception area, disappointed but not surprised to see that Carrington, his assistant, had not made it into the office yet. She liked chatting with the young woman about her latest fashion accessory or the new line of Louboutin heels (Erin Strauss had definitely influenced Carrington's personal style—seeing as Carrington worked for Strauss for almost a decade, it made sense). Carrington was much more demure in her wardrobe choices than Penelope was, but occasionally she wore a bright new nail polish or some flashy pumps that made Garcia's own little fashionista heart sing with joy.

Aside from Carrington's good taste in clothing, she was simply a welcome distraction from the heavy business of Garcia's usual day. Again, years with Erin Strauss had taken their toll—Carrington was a master of snark and dry wit, but she could be kind and friendly as well. And with a day like today, Penelope could have certainly used a good smile and a warm word of encouragement.

_Ah, well. I'll just have to text her later and see if she wants to grab some tea during break_. Penelope rapped her knuckles on Cruz's closed door, waiting for his response.

None came, but she noticed the door was slightly open—and the light was on, a sure sign that someone was here. Gently turning the knob, she cautiously stuck her head in the room.

"Sir? Sir, it's Penelope Garcia."

No answer. She looked around, but the room was empty.

However, the computer was still on, a case report still glowing back at her from the screen.

_Maybe he's gone to the restroom_, she told herself. He had to be here—standard time-out on the FBI computers was less than ten minutes, though most were cautious enough to log out before leaving their desks, a sure sign that he'd gone somewhere close by, most likely for what was intended to be a very short amount of time.

With a pert turn on her heel, Penelope went back into the reception area to await her section chief's return.

Suddenly, the air filled with a catastrophic noise, its volume as equally surprising as the shaking floor beneath her feet. She hit the ground, the sharp pain in her ankle informing her that it'd definitely been sprained by falling in heels—papers and folders flew everywhere, only to be joined by items from Carrington's desk and the neighboring bookshelves.

The ringing in her ears was so loud that at first, she didn't hear an even scarier sound—but soon, she began to hear the groans and twists of metal under pressure.

"Oh my god," she pushed herself backwards, moving further away from the hallway, where the sounds were louder and more ominous. She could hear people's voices, nervous and disoriented and in pain.

There was a heavy clump of sound, accompanied by a few more shouts of surprise or injury. The ceiling overhead shook, sending a light spray of dust and plaster into her hair.

Whatever had happened, it had taken out the support for the ceiling, and now the entire floor was unstable as the ceiling began bowing under the weight of itself.

"Ohmigodohmigodohmigod…." Her logic screamed that she was going in the wrong direction, away from the emergency exits, but her primal instincts pushed her to get as far away from the danger zone as possible—back into Cruz's office.

Once she was safely inside the office, she stopped, forcing herself to take a deep breath and concentrate.

Aside from the fact that the roof was caving in, her biggest problem was her ankle, which was still sending white-hot streaks of pain up her leg—a quick glance informed her that it was definitely swollen. She slipped off her heels, knowing she wouldn't be able to move quickly down several flights of stairs with them on her feet, much less with a bum ankle. That simple action sent another jolt of agony through her body, and her head spun slightly.

She took a deep breath, trying to push past the fear and the pain. _OK, Penelope. You've got to get on your feet, and get moving. Stay to the edge of the hallway, take one slow step at a time, and get to the stairwell. You can do this._

Pulling herself up on the edge of Cruz's desk, she put the first amount of real pressure on her ankle.

Her vision went black and her head swam with nausea. As she plummeted back to the floor, her last clear thought was, _I'm not even supposed to be here._

* * *

_**FBI Field Office. New York City, New York.**_

She wasn't even supposed to be here. That thought played like a loop in Adelaide Macaraeg's brain—her daughter was graduating from the University of Wisconsin in two days, and she was supposed to be at home, packing her bags for a 4pm flight out of La Guardia. However, over a lazy cup of coffee this morning, Adelaide had suddenly remembered that she'd brought home several flies that needed to be returned before her week-long vacation to the exciting sprawling metropolis of Madison.

Which landed her here, in her office, putting files back into their proper boxes as the phone rang on her desk.

She shouldn't answer. Technically, she wasn't here.

She rarely did what she should, and this was no exception.

"Macaraeg," she answered tartly, praying to god that it was some request that she could simply forward to one of her team.

"Mac?" The voice on the other end belonged to Casey Impastoli, SAC of the NYC Field Office. "I thought you were gone for the week."

"Then why the hell'd you call me?" She feigned irritation, the most common form of communication in her relationship with Agent Impastoli—he played the annoying little brother and she played the beleaguered and tough-but-loveable sister.

"I dunno," he admitted easily, obviously unfazed by her tone. "I guess I just always expect you to be here. Cuz you always are."

"I'm gonna ignore the dig at my personal life and simply ask what you want, Casey."

"Got a call from Quantico a few minutes ago. It ain't pretty—apparently somebody tried to blow them up. O'Donnell's thinking it's an inside man kinda deal. Which means all the investigative legwork has to be taken care of by out-of-office personnel."

Her heart sank as she realized what this meant, "Case, c'mon—my daughter's graduation is in two days. I'm supposed to be out of here by this afternoon. I can't miss this."

"And you won't—"

"You're expecting an open-and-shut case, and it's not gonna happen like that, Casey—if this is an inside job, it's gonna take _weeks_ to prove it, and even if it's not, it's still gonna take days to recover all the forensic evidence from the original blast. I don't have days, Casey. I have to leave _today_."

He gave a heavy sigh, but she knew that he hadn't given up (he never did, a trait she both loved and hated). "Look, Mac, I just need you to go down there—take a couple of agents with you, get 'em started, do what you can, then fly out to Milwaukee or Minnesota or—"

"Madison. Wisconsin."

"Yeah, whatever—fly out in a day or two. You've still got time to make the graduation, and that's the important thing, right?"

"I could just leave the office right now and go back to my vacation time, you know."

"I know. But you won't." There was a smile in his voice. "I know you, Mac. You're one of those always-a-soldier-never-a-civilian types. You always answer the call."

"Don't act like you've got me all sized up, Agent Impastoli."

"Am I wrong?"

"I'm just saying you can't know that you're right."

"Oh but I do. And ya know why?" There was something positively gleeful about his tone, as if he knew he held the winning hand. "Because even though you're on vacation, you still answered the phone when it rang. You had every right and every chance to ignore it, but you didn't. Because you can't. It's not who you are."

She gave a sigh, turning her gaze to the window. She couldn't argue with that.

"Fine. I'll get a team together." She hung up, shaking her head as she headed back into the bullpen.

She scanned the room, looking for two familiar faces. As usual, she found them side-by-side—thick as thieves, those two.

Raising her hand to wave them over, she called out, "Lewis. Masterson. Pack your gear. We're heading to Quantico."

* * *

"_[E]verything happens for a reason…if I lose faith in that, then nothing in my life makes sense."_

_~Chris Mundy (writing as Penelope, in Eps 3.9: Penelope)._


	5. Play It Like Henry V

**Play It Like Henry V**

"_Courage, dear heart."_

_~C.S. Lewis._

* * *

_***Author's Note: If you haven't read Out of Africa (shame, shame!), then you need to know that Rowena Lewis and Jeff Masterson first appeared there—a little more of their backstory and Rowena's connection to Emily Prentiss are detailed in several chapters, though I suppose it's not entirely necessary for understanding them now. You at least need to know that they're mentally cast as Michelle Forbes and Christopher Meloni, respectively.**_

_**And Macaraeg, our newest addition, is based on actress Amy Aquino.***_

* * *

_**New York City, New York.**_

Rowena Lewis had yet to decide if she truly liked her newest superior—SSA Macaraeg was an interesting nut to crack, that was for certain. Her mouth had a natural downward turn, which always made her seem unimpressed and unamused with the world, and when she did smile, the sharp thinness of her lips made it seem wicked rather than welcoming, especially since it was paired with her dark features and a set of disconcertingly-amber eyes that seemed almost wolf-like. Thankfully, she was one of those people whose personality did not match her appearance—she had an infectious laugh that could shatter a room and a formidable reputation as a prankster of epic proportions, as well as being known as a stand-up agent, the kind you wanted watching your back in the field. However, being a decent and witty human being wasn't the same as being a good supervisor. Being a leader required a different skill set, and Adelaide Macaraeg had yet to prove that she possessed such traits (at least in Rowena's opinion).

Even though they'd both been stationed at the New York office for years now (six years for Macaraeg, nine for Rowena), their paths had rarely crossed, mainly due to the fact that until three weeks ago, they'd never been assigned to the same unit, or even the same case. But Lewis' former supervisor had shipped off to replace the SAC in New Orleans, and Macaraeg had been tapped from her place as team leader in Crisis Negotiation to head the Evidence Recovery and Response Unit.

Three weeks, and the office still looked like it was under construction—no plaques or photos or personal touches of any kind, just boxes upon boxes of files and the nameplate reading _Adelaide Macaraeg _on the edge of the desk.

Right now, Rowena was seated in front of that meticulously blank desk, next to her teammate and best friend, Jeff Masterson. Side by side, Masterson and Macaraeg looked like something out a TV show—he as the stereotypical blue-eyed, broad shouldered, close-shaved cop and she as the battleworn, vaguely-mixed ethnicity, pursed-lipped superior officer.

Macaraeg—more affectionately known as Mac by her fellow agents—was currently leaned against the edge of her desk, arms crossed over her chest as she explained the situation in Quantico. Some kind of explosion, that was all they knew—the smoke hadn't even cleared and rescue teams were still retrieving bodies and survivors, so there wasn't much solid information yet, but that didn't matter (that was their job, figuring out exactly what happened).

Of course, Rowena was only half-listening, because her mind was still looping around the fact that they were going to Quantico. A little over a year ago, Jeff and Rowena had been sent out with a Joint Terrorism Task Force to Nairobi, Kenya, to work on another case involving bombs—and during that time, they'd met and befriended Hotchner, Rossi, and Dr. Reid, along with their former-team-member-turned-Interpol-Chief Emily Prentiss.

Rowena had seen the flicker of concern in Jeff's eyes whenever Mac first mentioned the attack at Quantico, and she knew that, like her, his first thought had been whether or not their friends were injured in the blast (of course, that was another thing they wouldn't know until they got there, but it definitely added a layer of suspense and stress to their impending case).

"They're setting up a mobile command center outside the building," Mac continued, glancing down at her feet as if the carpet held the answer to some unknown riddle. "It'll be ready to go, by the time we get there—our flight leaves in an hour."

"An hour?" Jeff sat back slightly, obviously concerned. "We can't even make it to the airport in an hour, much less have all the necessary gear ready to go as well."

Now Mac gave a wry smile. "They're sending a helicopter here to pick us up and get us to the tarmac at LaGuardia—we've got about thirty minutes to grab our gear and get to the rooftop helipad. Apparently the Quantico SAC doesn't want to waste a single minute."

"Do you blame him?" Jeff shook his head sadly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I bet poor O'Donnell never saw this one coming."

"You know O'Donnell?" There was a note of surprise in Mac's tone, yet the only change in her stoic expression was the slightest lift of her brow.

"We graduated the Academy together," Jeff waved away the thought. "Good guy. Straight-shooter. His Irish-Catholic guilt's gonna eat him alive over this, though."

His unit chief gave a hum of understanding. Again, she gave a small smile. "Gets the best of us, dunnit?"

Rowena saw a flash of recognition between the two—the moment Jeff realized that Mac was a member of his faith. It was something Rowena never understood, how the man could develop this instant camaraderie with anyone who was a fellow Catholic. It was like having a best friend who was in some secret club that you couldn't be a part of.

Well, she could, technically. She'd just have to confess her sins and renounce her ways, and really, that was all she had to call her own these days, so how could she just abandon them?

Their supervisor quickly dismissed them, advising them to pack as expediently as possible. With curt nods of understanding, the two agents headed to the lab.

"This isn't good," Jeff said quietly, and also unnecessarily.

"Yeah," his partner kept close to him, their shoulders brushing as they walked. "I just hope everyone's OK."

Jeff knew that _everyone_ meant the BAU.

"When's the last time you spoke to any of them?" He asked, his own mind trying to answer the question as well.

"Uh…couple months?" Rowena gave a slight shake of her head as she opened the frosted double-doors that separated the lab from the rest of the forensics department. "I dunno—I stay in touch more with Emily; she sometimes mentions them and how they're doing."

Jeff nodded—he didn't know exactly what had happened during their time in Nairobi, but he knew that Rowena and Emily Prentiss had become fast friends. Roe had simply said that it had something to do with mutual scars, and the vagueness of her answer had informed him that she did not wish to delve any deeper into the matter, so he'd respectfully left it alone.

Roe's face lit up into her characteristic playful smirk, "I do know that David Rossi's working on his next book."

Of course, she was taking the opportunity to tease Jeff about his admiration for Rossi—Jeff had read all his books and followed his career extensively, seeing the older man's principles and work ethic as a model for his own foundation as an agent. When they'd been assigned to the ANAM case in Nairobi, Jeff had been over the moon about the thought of working alongside one of his idols. Although meeting the real David Rossi had made him realize that there was a living, breathing man behind the legend, it hadn't lessened his respect for the famed agent in the slightest. If anything, it had increased his admiration.

But today, Roe's gentle teasing about what she called his _man crush_ only incited another wave of apprehension at the thought that David Rossi might be among the wounded or even—God forbid—the dead.

Roe saw the worry in his face and her smile immediately fell as she reached for him, letting her hand rest on his bicep with a comforting squeeze, "He's OK, Jeff. If anyone walked out of there alive and well, it was David Rossi. The man's a cat, always lands on his feet."

He nodded, forcing a small smile of agreement. He didn't remind her that cats only had nine lives—and Rossi had already cashed in several of those chips over the years. Instead he simply pushed past her, into the lab which was already humming and brimming with activity, despite the early morning hour.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite dynamic duo," Shelley Gosslee, head of the lab, smiled brightly at them. She had short grey hair that spiked out all over her head, leading the younger lab techs to call her Madam Hooch behind her back (and though she never let on, she was aware of the nickname—having nieces and nephews of her own, she understood the Harry Potter reference and actually relished her title, seeing as Hooch was a bit of a badass when it came to Defense against the Dark Arts).

"Hey, Shell," Jeff gave a small nod as they stopped in front of her. "We need a coupla' evidence kits for the road."

"What kind of scene are we talking about?" She asked curiously, slipping her black-rimmed glasses off her nose and delicately placing them atop her head. Rowena and Jeff knew that she wasn't asking out of idle fascination—she couldn't properly pack a kit if she didn't know what they needed.

"Detonation," Jeff answered, glancing around to make sure no one else was within earshot (Mac hadn't said the case was confidential, but he had the feeling that it was best to keep the details to a minimum for now). "Residue collection strips, chemical test strips, that sort of thing."

She gave a nod of agreement, turning back to another room of the lab, where huge pelican cases were stored and waiting to be loaded down with gear. "C'mon. I'm sure you can find half this stuff just as easily as I can—and based on the way you strode in here like the horsemen of the apocalypse, I'm guessing we need to do this as quickly as possible."

"That guess would be correct," Rowena grinned (she'd always liked Hooch, in the way that she wished she could love her own mother—though sadly after all that her mother had allowed her stepfather to do to her, Rowena knew that any chance for love and forgiveness between them was gone).

The frosted glass doors swung open again, and this time, Mac blew through, looking around with a slight furrow of her brow. "Gosslee?"

"Back here," Hooch called out, rounding the corner with a smile. "Addie Mac—I was wondering when you'd finally get your happy little ass back to my part of the world again."

Mac's face blossomed into a smile as she gave a nonchalant shrug, "Been in the new position for three weeks now and I'm still playing catch-up. The last guy loved his paper—boxes and boxes of it. He even kept the meal receipts from every trip he took for a case."

"Frierson always was a bit anal-retentive," Gosslee referred to Mac's predecessor with a nod of agreement. "But a good man."

"Aw, c'mon, Goss. You know those don't exist," Mac gave her a wink. The two women shared a smile that spoke of an inside joke, and Rowena suddenly decided that she just might like her new supervisor. Mac jerked her chin in the direction of Lewis and Masterson, "I see you're already helping us out with the gear, then."

"Of course, my dear. Though a fourth pair of hands would definitely make the time go faster."

Mac nodded and followed them back to the supply room, easily pulling out the bins of kits that they would need for collection and on-site testing. "Quantico's got a pretty bang-up lab—if it's still standing. I'm not sure if they'll let us use it, though."

"Why not?" Gosslee was confused. "And why are you going to Quantico? Don't they have their own teams for evidence collection? And what do you mean, 'if it's still standing'?"

"Oh," Mac stopped, turned around, looked at her two agents. "I just assumed you'd told her."

Jeff shook his head, "We weren't sure what the security level was on this one."

Mac nodded in understanding before giving a dismissive way towards the lab supervisor, "Goss is a stone fortress—you can trust her with anything."

She continued gathering supplies, handing test kits to Roe and Jeff, which they put in their respective pelican cases. With a slight glance over her shoulder at Shelley Gosslee, she explained, "Someone's bombed Quantico, and by the looks of it, it's an inside job. So the investigation has to be handled by outside teams, from start to finish."

"But that doesn't explain why they're calling New York," Gosslee slipped her glassed onto her face again to read the label on some residue strips before giving them to Jeff. "I mean, Richmond and D.C. are closer."

"New York's only an hour by plane."

"And Richmond can get there in forty-five minutes or less by car," Gosslee pointed out. "If they turn on their lights and punch the pedal."

"I don't know what to tell ya, Goss," Mac admitted, completely nonchalant. "They called us, and we're answering. A request isn't exactly an in-depth discussion, ya know."

Gosslee gave an amused hum at the last comment. She pulled down a bin filled with tins of fingerprint powder—she doubted that they had any idea what color the surface was at the crime scene, which was a factor when considering what type of powder to use. So she grabbed a few jars of aluminum powder (best suited for its ability to show up clearly on multiple types and shades of surfaces), plus a jar of carbon and a jar of bi-chromatic (which was generally used on multi-colored surfaces, but who knew what they'd encounter at Quantico?). Another jar of florescent powder was added as well—just in case. Then came the kits, which had the brushes, print lifting pads and lifting tape, and backing cards to transfer fingerprints onto.

"We're taking a laser scanner," Mac announced, looking around the supply room.

"Here," Rowena found the shelf of scanners first, crouching down to pull out a smaller, heavier pelican case. Then she glanced at the shelf again, "Oh, which one do we want?"

Mac turned back to Gosslee, "I dunno, Goss, which one do we want?"

"Detonation, right?"

"Right."

"Is the scene stable? Like, are you gonna have full range of access, or will the floors and ceiling be too damaged?"

"Jesus, how will I fucking know that until we get there?" Mac set her hands on her hips in irritation.

Her ire had no effect on the lab supervisor, who merely turned to Rowena with a slight shrug, "I'd say take the V-Line. It's gonna give you the fastest results. But I'll tell ya this—if the scene _is_ too unstable and the Quantico lab is still undamaged, ask to borrow their GLS model. It's better at long-range scans, so you can get an accurate reading of the scene's dimensions from a safer distance."

"Yeah, but the GLS scan won't be 3-D, like the V-Line, right?" Jeff Masterson spoke up, his eyebrow quirking in uncertainty.

Gosslee gave a nod, her smile tinged with admiration, "My, my, a man who knows his laser scanners."

"I know just enough to be dangerous," he assured her. Part of his reply was a good dash of humble pie, but part of it was truth—of course, he and Roe knew how to map a crime scene and how to work all the tools necessary for such a task, but he was also the kind of guy who didn't care for the specifics of every model so much as he just wanted to know that it did what he needed it to do and did it well. His comprehension of these machines went as deep as understanding how to work it and when to use it.

The V-Line scanner's smaller case was packed into a larger one containing the rest of their evidence collection materials, and soon everything was ready to go. Mac thanked Gosslee, and the trio of agents headed out the door again.

Rowena finally asked the question that had been on her mind since Mac's arrival into the lab, "So…you know Hooch?"

Mac wrinkled her nose slightly at the last word. "The Prohibition was a little before my time, Agent Lewis."

Jeff bit back a chuckle, "That's Gosslee's nickname among the lab kids."

"Oh." Mac's brow furrowed in confusion. Suddenly, her face lit up in understanding, "Like from Harry Potter? It's cuz of the hair, right? I can see that."

"_You've_ watched Harry Potter?" Rowena Lewis exchanged a furtive shocked looked with her partner. Of course, the only reason they'd known about the reference was because one of the younger lab techs had a crush on Roe (which she used shamelessly to her advantage—it always meant that her work orders and test results came back faster than usual) and he'd told them about the nickname and its origin.

"And read all the books," Mac added, her usual stoic expression in place. There was a beat, in which she couldn't see her coworkers' expressions but she could feel their confusion nonetheless. "My daughter is a big fan. We read the books together when she was in grade school, went to all the movies together. She was in college by the time the last movie came out, but I still flew out to Wisconsin just to see it in theaters with her. Which officially makes it the most expensive damn movie ticket ever, I guess."

Again, Roe and Jeff exchanged looks of surprise—neither one knew that Mac had a daughter.

"Things we do for our kids, right?" Mac offered a wry smile over her shoulder before ducking back into her office to gather the rest of her things and the go-bag that had been stored under her desk since her first day in the office.

Roe headed to her own desk to grab her go-bag as well, "A day full of surprises, huh?"

Jeff gave a heavy sigh, "Let's hope that's the last surprise for the day."

His partner gave him an apologetic smile over her shoulder. They both knew that such a thing was impossible.

* * *

_**Quantico, Virginia.**_

Why was it raining? Penelope scrunched her face in confusion, slowly opening her eyes—suddenly, everything came back to her. The pain of trying to stand on her injured ankle had made her pass out (a sure sign that it was broken instead of merely sprained), but the sprinklers had brought her back to consciousness.

Sprinklers meant smoke, which meant fire. This did not help the rising panic coursing through her veins.

_Just breathe, breathe and think about what you need to do._ Penelope took the time to assess the situation and gather her strength for what would certainly be a hellacious task.

She knew the elevators were not an option, so she had to find a way to get down nine flights of stairs with a broken ankle. She was sure that rescue teams would soon be here—but she had no idea how bad the fire was, or how quickly it was spreading, which meant she needed to get herself as far away from it as possible.

Whatever had happened, she was pretty sure that it had happened on this floor. The rescuers would take the stairs to get here, and somewhere along the way, they would find her and bring her down to safety. All she had to do was get to the stairwell.

_Easier said than done_. With a frowning purse of her lips, she pushed the negative thoughts away.

So how to get down a flight of stairs without crutches? She needed something that would keep all pressure off her ankle but allowed for quick and easy movement.

_She needed a sled._ The thought blossomed in her brain as she sat up, scanning the room for anything that could be used for a makeshift sled.

The coffee table.

Tossing aside the magazines and newspapers neatly stacked on top, Penelope gave a mental apology to Chief Cruz for what would surely be the destruction of his coffee table (though at this point, a scratched-up coffee table really was the least of his worries). She pushed it over, so that the legs were sticking upwards. Setting her heels on the sled (despite their recent assault against her ankle, she wasn't going to just leave them there), she gingerly pushed it towards the door, moving forward on her knees. The action still made her ankle sear with pain, but at least she wasn't blacking out again. She focused on her breathing and kept pushing forward.

She had definitely made the right decision by choosing to get out of here—the main hallway outside Carrington's reception area was filled with smoke, despite the sprinklers.

And here's where Penelope Garcia hit a dilemma. The closest stairwell was near the southeastern elevators, but it was also the closest to the damaged area.

She shook her head, silently disagreeing with herself—no way was she getting any closer to that, not after all those horrific sounds and the general instability of the entire floor.

Which left her with the next best option: at the other end of the hallway was another stairwell, next to the southwestern elevators. With another deep breath, she began to make her way down the hall.

She hadn't seen or heard anyone else, and that worried her. Since she had plenty of time to take in her surroundings (crawling wasn't exactly a dash, you know), she peered cautiously into each room as she passed by. A few empty offices, a deserted break room.

However, in one office, she saw an arm sticking out from underneath two heavy wooden bookshelves.

There wasn't much she could do, but she stopped anyways, crawling into the room. She remembered enough from her basic emergency response training to ask the phrase, "Hey, are you OK?"

No response. Not that she really expected one. Gingerly moving away several displaced books, she tried to lift the bookcase, but it didn't even budge—it was solid wood, which would take several strong, able-bodied men to move, not someone with a broken ankle and limited upper-body strength to begin with.

She lowered herself to the ground, trying to peer underneath. A blank stare greeted her.

She knew that look. She'd seen in a thousand times, in photos more gruesome than this scene. Still, she reached forward, trying to feel for a pulse. The stillness of the man's veins only reiterated the truth.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, pushing herself back onto her knees. She wondered if his ghost was in the room, if he could hear her and understand. "I…I have to go. I'm sorry."

Though she didn't make a sound, nor did any tears slip down her cheeks, Penelope could feel the skittering of her lungs and knew that she was crying.

It was OK to cry, so long as she kept moving while she did it. The coffee table seemed heavier, harder to push, as if suddenly the strength in her arms was completely sapped.

She made it a few feet farther before she simply stopped, hanging her head to noiselessly sob.

There was a reason that she was a technical analyst, not a field agent. There was a reason that she stayed behind in her cozy and safe little office while her loves rushed into the fray. There was a reason that she only dealt with the death and destruction from at least one step removed, only in photographs and coroner's reports. She was not built for this. Mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually, Penelope Garcia was one built for tragedy but not the destruction surrounding it. She was never meant to be in the trenches, never on the front lines, never in the field—but all of that had been brought to her door, quite literally, and now she was forced into surviving it.

With a sniffling, skittering breath, she tried to rein in her scattered nerves and her pained emotions. She tried to remember the trick that Emily had taught her about compartmentalizing—there was a time and a place for everything, so figure out what you were supposed to be doing in that moment, and focus on that moment alone. Talk yourself through it.

Right here, right now was the place and time for survival.

"OK, Penelope. Get moving."

With another deep breath, she did just that.

Of course, being Penelope, stoicism wasn't exactly her strong suit—she found herself still contemplating her situation, though she did so in a much more removed way.

In her next life, she'd better be some kind of fairy princess. Hell, in this life she should get that kind of karmic payback—she'd endured enough to last at least two lifetimes, surely the Universal scales would tip back in her favor, wouldn't they?

"You know what, Karma?" Penelope spared a glance upwards as she continued her trek down the hall (her nylons were already shredded and she had the distinct feeling that her knees were about to bleed very soon). "I won't even ask to be a fairy princess, in this life or any other, if we can just both agree that I make it out of here alive and all my family does too, OK? Deal?"

She didn't call them her team, because they were more than that—they were, as she said, her family. Karma knew that, too. After all, Penelope held onto the firm belief that Karma had sent these people into her life to make up for the darker times, to replace some of the spaces left behind by her parents.

For all her religious ambiguity, she truly was a person of faith. And right now, she clung to that faith with every fiber of her being. It was the only thing that kept her going.

Holding a heavy metal door open long enough to slide an upside-down coffee table through proved to be a unique challenge, and Penelope couldn't help but give a cheer of relief when she overcame. She found a potted plant to hold the door open, and she left it there, letting the weak shaft of light give some shape to the gloom of the darkened stairwell—for some reason, not even the emergency lighting system was on, which meant the completely-concrete-encased stairwell was pitch black when all the doors were closed.

"OK," She took another deep breath, trying to ignore the burning in her knees as she shuffled across the cement landing. She sat back (an action of which her ankle did not approve), steadying the coffee table as she lined it up with the edge of the top step. "Easy as pie, Penelope. It'll be fun. Just like when you were a kid. It's just another snow day, and you're going sledding."

She tried to believe her own words. But reality was a bit too bitchy and persistent to allow such a thing.

Like most box staircases, it was designed with half a landing between each flight—so there was one set of stairs going in one direction, ending at a landing, where the staircase then turned 180 degrees to go in the opposite direction, with its flight ending on the next floor. Her journey would be broken into short bursts of sledding, followed by repositioning the table and pushing off again. It was probably a better, safer bet than if she were just shooting down a single long staircase.

Probably.

Carefully sitting on the coffee table, Penelope reached out, placing her hands on the guiderails on either side of the staircase. She'd decided that she could also use her grip on the guiderails to manage her downward speed. With one last deep breath, Penelope closed her eyes as pushed off.

All thought of holding onto the guiderails or managing speed was quickly abandoned—the table itself set its own pace, and it decided to go fast. The force of its trajectory ripped Penelope's hands away from the guard rails, so she instinctively placed them on the back two legs of the table, clutching them for dear life.

The table clattered onto the landing between flights with a terrific bang, and Penelope's poor ankle sent a shock-wave of pain through her entire body again.

"That wasn't so bad," she told herself, though she didn't sound too convincing. She was officially half a story closer to her goal—the next staircase would get her to the eighth floor, and so on. She kept reassuring herself that the rescue teams would reach her long before she got to the first floor, which meant she wouldn't have to suffer through this exercise for many more flights.

The next time that she settled onto the coffee table again, after pushing it across another concrete landing, she could see that her knees were bleeding, even in the dim light that still filtered through the open door on the ninth floor.

She glanced down at the orange pumps in her lap. "You better be glad you're cute—although I still might set you on fire once we get out of here."

The things women suffered for a nice pair of shoes.

The next flight seemed worse than the last. Penelope had hoped that each time would get more bearable, not less. She felt nauseous again.

_You can't, Penelope. You don't have time to be sick. You have to keep going._

It took longer to push the table across the landing this time—her knees screamed in protest, each movement sending sparks of pain across her skin as the rough concrete chewed at the cuts on her knees. Now what little light the open ninth floor door had provided was gone, and she was truly alone in the dark again. She had no idea what had happened to her cellphone—it must have been lost in the shuffle when the first big blast had hit.

No light, no help, with a broken ankle and bloody knees and scratched palms and a swimming head. This was definitely pushing into the worst case scenario category.

_Mind over matter. Like Sigourney Weaver in Alien_. She didn't know why she suddenly thought of that, but Penelope remembered the actress giving an interview in which she said that she'd always played Ellen Ripley like Henry V—mind over matter.

Penelope had to sit on the floor and laugh at the strangeness of her life. Sledding, Sigourney Weaver, setting high heels on fire—these were the things she contemplated as she tried to escape a building that was both on fire and crumbling around her.

She decided it was just another sign that she truly was not suited for this kind of daring escapade (though in reality, perhaps it actually meant the opposite).

Her momentary mirth was shredded by an awful sound—it came from the other side of the building, somewhere below, but it was loud enough and large enough to fill the air and rattle the walls around her.

She was pretty sure that she'd just heard an elevator plummet to the ground.

* * *

"_When the noise is gone, and the air is still…prepare for survival."  
~__John-Talmage Mathis._

* * *

_***Author's Note: Merci beaucoup for all the wonderful reviews so far-you guys are making it such a fun ride already!**_

_**Just FYI stuff….Gosslee's idea that Madam Hooch is a "badass**__** when it came to Defense against the Dark Arts" is a theory supported within the Potterverse, seeing as Hooch can cast a non-corporeal Patronus (one of the most difficult charms to master), as well as the easily cast a powerful Impediment Jinx on two people at once. **_

_**And the whole story about Sigourney Weaver playing Ripley "like Henry V" is true...Carry on.***_


	6. Before, During, After

**Before, During, After**

"_We must be silent before we can listen._

_We must listen before we can learn._

_We must learn before we can __prepare__._

_We must __prepare__ before we can serve._

_We must serve before we can lead.__"_

_~William Arthur Ward._

* * *

"Did JJ say which elevator she's in?" Hotch's eyes were filled with fear, and Spencer Reid felt a responding prick of dread in his own stomach.

"I-I'm not sure." The younger man immediately went back to his phone, scrolling through his texts from JJ. "No, she didn't."

"What's happening?" Morgan was returning from making yet another visual sweep of the crowd, and the looks on Hotch's and Reid's faces were enough to stop him cold. Callahan was at his elbow, alert as well.

"There's an issue with one of the elevators. We're trying to make sure it isn't JJ's." Hotch's voice was neutral, but his words were too quick.

Morgan swore under his breath, making a quick, helpless circle as he turned and whirled back again—Hotch knew that it was a physical impulse, his only way of curbing his absolute need to rush in and save his friends from harm.

Kate Callahan was smart enough to keep her question silent, but her mind still wondered, _And what if it is?_ There wasn't anything they could do. However, pointing out the helplessness of the situation wouldn't make it any more bearable (in fact, it would do the complete opposite).

Aaron turned back to O'Donnell to ask another question, but the SAC had moved away—he was speaking quietly with a few Marines, and from his expression, it wasn't a pleasant topic.

When O'Donnell walked back to them, his face was filled with apology, "We're going to collect everyone's cell phones for the time being—"

"What?" Spencer had overheard the statement, his grip tightening reflexively over his only link to JJ.

"It's a necessary precaution," O'Donnell informed him with a sigh. "I want to keep this under wraps for as long as possible—we're lucky the press hasn't already shown up. Besides, if it was an inside job, I don't want the perpetrator or perpetrators to be able to communicate with any accomplices still on the outside."

"You can't do this—we have to know what's going on," Spencer protested, glancing at the Marines who were already preparing to carry out this new edict.

Hotch stayed calmer but he agreed with his team member, "Scott, this is going to escalate quickly if you cut everyone off from any source of information. People are already feeling displaced and helpless—taking away their phones is like taking away a safety blanket. The results won't be pretty."

"They're all Federal agents," O'Donnell pointed out (and Reid fought back the urge to correct him—they weren't _all_ agents, some were support personnel). "They'll understand the situation."

Hotch looked away, keeping the rest of his thoughts to himself, though his SAC could still see the disagreement plainly etched upon his face.

Within a few minutes, the Marines had formed into pairs—one with a bin to hold the phones, the other with a clipboard and numbered stickers to keep track of which phone belonged to whom.

When they approached Spencer, he refused, "I'm not giving up my phone."

"Reid," Hotch warned quietly, depositing his own phone into the bin and writing his name on the clipboard next to the corresponding number that had been stuck to the back of his cell.

"He has a point," Morgan crossed his arms over his broad chest. "Our phones are our only way to connect with the rest of our team—we shouldn't have to give them up. We _need_ them, Hotch."

"We need to follow the rules," Hotch corrected, and they looked at him as if he'd grown a second head. With a quick glance back at O'Donnell, he quietly informed them, "Scott has already decided that we won't be allowed to work the case—if we want to change his mind, we have to play nicely."

Spencer shook his head, "I'm sorry, Hotch, but I won't do it. JJ could text at any second—it's been six minutes since she's responded, and I'm not going to miss a call or a text just because the SAC is being paranoid."

"Sir, we need you to surrender your phone," a Marine stepped forward assertively. He made Derek Morgan look small, compared to his own barrel chest and muscular arms, but Spencer Reid didn't even bat an eye.

"I'm sorry, but that's not happening," the young doctor informed him succinctly.

"Sir—"

"It's _Doctor_, and the answer is no."

"Sir, we have orders—"

"I'm well aware of that. And I'm still saying no."

"Reid," Callahan warned, her eyes still locked on the two Marines standing before them. They were already on-edge—they looked like they were gearing up for a fight, by the set of their shoulders and the way they hemmed closer together. "Reid, don't push it."

"I'm not giving up my only connection to JJ," Reid turned back to give her a severe look, his eyes reprimanding her for her own cowardice as she handed over her cellphone.

"Reid," Hotch's tone was cutting, harsh enough to make everyone snap to attention. The unspoken command in his dark eyes was clear as day—but the young doctor simply stood there, his own expression set in defiance as he gripped his phone for dear life.

"Look," Morgan changed tactics, smoothing things over with a helpful smile to the Marines. "He just needs a little more convincing—why don't you go make your rounds, and once you've gotten everybody else's, you can come back and get his?"

"Sir, our orders are—"

"To collect the phones," Morgan finished for him. "But nobody said in what order—you'll still have his, just a few minutes later than planned. Is that really a big deal? I mean, if he were at the back of the crowd, you'd still get his phone in the same amount of time."

The two Marines exchanged glances, weighing Morgan's logic.

He took the opportunity to step closer to them, keeping his tone low, confidential, "Look, his best friend's trapped inside—he just wants to be able to reach her and know she's safe. They're getting her out right now. We just need a few more minutes. Once he sees that she's OK and she's back here with us, he'll be fine."

The look of understanding on their faces told Morgan that he'd won. They knew how it felt, losing track of brothers-in-arms and feeling the fear of uncertainty. And it certainly helped that the BAU agent wore a look of helpful longsuffering, as if he were trying to do them a favor and avoid a potential scene in which they'd have to physically restrain the man in question. So as humans are wont to do, they took the path of least resistance.

"Fine," the massive one gave a curt nod. He spared a meaningful glance at Spencer Reid, "But you'd better be prepared to give that thing up next time we come around."

"If JJ's out," Spencer stipulated, which caused Callahan to gently touch his arm in silent reprimand.

Once the two Marines moved on, the BAU members immediately turned to look at Spencer Reid, like reproachful parents who'd just caught a teen sneaking in past curfew.

Hotch spoke first, low and clipped and seething with disapproval, "I understand how you feel, Reid, but this type of behavior isn't helping the situation—in fact, it's hurting our cause—"

"Our cause should be getting our team back," Reid cut him off. "The case and the UNSUB and everything else should be secondary to finding everyone and getting them to safety."

"And our ability to find them depends on our ability to play well with the others—don't think that O'Donnell won't freeze us out of the information loop if he decides that we're becoming a problem," Hotch shot back, the anger evident in his body language. "We have to look at the whole board here, Reid. I apologize if that comes across as uncaring, but you know as well as I do that refusing to cooperate only hurts our chances of reconnecting with everyone as quickly as possible. You don't have to agree with my orders, but you do have to follow them."

Reid's fist tightened around his phone again, his shoulders setting back just a fraction of an inch—he knew that Hotch was right, and he knew that the argument was logical, but _right_ and _logical_ held no place in his heart and his mind, which was consumed with worry for his friends.

Hotch stared at him for a moment—his strong stance was at odds with the almost-childish way that his hair fell into his eyes, reminding Hotch of JJ's son Henry, a thought both strange and heartbreaking. In those determined brown eyes he saw his own son as well—it was the same look that Jack wore when he felt himself to be in the right, when he silently informed his father that he wouldn't fight but he wouldn't retreat, either.

The BAU chief sighed, trying to offer some kind of truce, "Our first concern is finding JJ and Garcia—even if it requires us to make decisions that are frightening or uncomfortable."

The younger man took a moment to consider this statement, the expression on his face becoming slightly less adversarial. With a small nod, he accepted and agreed.

Kate Callahan watched with utter fascination—she was still the new kid on the block, still learning how everyone worked and how they worked together, still figuring out the dynamics of leadership in a team setting. Watching Hotch in action was both interesting and informative.

The moment was rent by an oddly muffled shrieking sound, followed by a hollow boom. Everyone in the crowd turned towards the main building, faces filled with fear as they collectively wondered what had happened now.

"Sit-rep," O'Donnell spoke into his radio, and the BAU members swiveled their heads in his direction, anxiously awaiting the reply.

A voice came over the radio, "Sir, we've lost the elevator. It just—it just fell."

Derek Morgan almost made it back into the building before the Marine guards could pull him back. Hotch and Spencer were half a length behind him (Spencer putting up more of a fight than anyone, a sight both valiant and pitiful, given the much larger size of the men restraining him).

Morgan still strained against the four sets of arms pulling him back to the barricade, "JJ!"

* * *

"Down!" Military Police bellowed, grabbing JJ's shoulders and toppling to the floor.

A breath, a moment of white fear, Henry's face, her father's face—and chaos unleashed. She felt her entire body sink even deeper into the floor, as if she was going to slip through it entirely, then rocket back up into the air, as if she were a child jumping on a trampoline again, heart in her throat like a cocktail of adrenaline and euphoria and fear—except this time, when she landed, she heard cracking and fireworks splintered through her brain as she hit the ground again. Her cheekbone immediately began to tighten and throb with swelling, and she couldn't feel her fingers or her toes.

The scariest part was the lack of sound. Not even a ringing in her ears, or the sound of her own breathing. Nothingness. Nothingness and blackness, though she wasn't sure if that was from the lack of light in the elevator or some kind of damage to her eyes.

_Henry, Henry, Henry_….ideas of thoughts muddled and flitted across her brain, but she couldn't find words or make them stick. Except this one—the most important word in her world.

_Henry, Henry, Henry…Henry_. It was a prayer, a puzzle, a plea, a lifeline. She felt too tired to move, and she knew that if she tried, only pain would ensue.

Pain was already slipping back into her veins—her ribs were searing and it hurt to breathe, but she could feel her toes again. One arm felt cold and the other was on fire. A nerve in her back radiated achingly into her legs, but at least it meant that she wasn't totally paralyzed.

Someone else was groaning, trying to move in the darkness.

She could hear again. She could hear everything—shouts from above, the tiniest flutter of the dust settling around her, the surprisingly-steady beat of her heart, the thundering footsteps of the rescue team hurrying back down the stairs, a horrible gurgling sound that she could only hope wasn't coming from her own throat at this point.

She could taste copper and dust on her tongue, her own blood mixed with the fibers of the carpeted floor beneath her and the bitter aftertaste of this morning's coffee. Her left arm was still cold and numb, but her right hand could feel the bits of plaster on top of it and the carpet underneath her fingertips.

More noise, too loud and too terrible. Then light, flooding the decimated elevator car and informing her that the darkness hadn't been due to some injury to her vision.

Voices. Questions, perhaps. No one moving her, but somehow she could tell they were speaking to her.

Finally, the words made sense, "Don't move. Can you hear me?"

Her brain lagged and groaned as it tried to comprehend and find the right words to string together in reply. It took a moment of truly focused intent to make her muscles and vocal chords move like they were supposed to. She could hear the slurry disorientation in her own voice as she mumbled, "Henry."

* * *

"_Life has to end, she said. Love doesn't."__  
__~Mitch Albom._


	7. The Tie that Binds

**The Tie that Binds**

"_It means little to anybody but us. We set store by kinfolk. We've our troubles from time to time, but when one of us is in danger, there'll be help from any who are around."__  
__~Louis L'Amour._

* * *

_***Author's Note: Happy Mardi Gras! As a Louisiana native, I can't help but love a chance to celebrate—even if it's from 1,898.4 miles away (yes, I checked on the exact mileage). So my Fat Tuesday gift to all y'all is here: three new chapters. Laissez les bon temps rouler, mes cheres! I'll be busy handing out some homemade king cake to all my neighbors (no beads, sadly) and wearing drag-queen expert levels of gold glitter eyeshadow at my day job. I encourage you to do something a little crazy, too—tis the season! Bonnes fêtes!***_

* * *

David Rossi was at the front of the barricade, still scanning the building's entrance for some sign that another set of rescuers and survivors were coming out. A boom sounded and he could feel the collective sharp intake of breath from everyone around him, the instinctual swiveling of heads back to the site of the sound.

"What was that?" Carrington was at his elbow again, alert and unmoving. She craned her long, graceful neck, as if a few extra inches of height would solve the mystery.

"I dunno," he answered, his quiet tone matching hers. "But I don't think it's good."

She gave a small hum of agreement, fingers anxiously fiddling with her necklace.

"Sammy," she called gently, and a Marine turned back to her in response.

"Yeah?" He came closer, curiosity on his face.

"What's going on?"

He glanced over his shoulder again, pressing his lips together as he considered sharing the next bit of information, "There's…something's wrong with one of the elevators. That's the last I heard."

"Oh, gods," Carrington breathed, her eyes shooting back to the building. "Do you—do you think maybe—"

"It had to've fallen," Sammy spared her the question.

As if on cue, his headset beeped, and he gave an apologetic half-smile. "Gotta get back to business."

He walked off, and Rossi took a moment to look at Carrington with a new sense of appreciation, "You've got some connections there, Carrington."

She gave a nonchalant shrug, "I learned to be friends with everybody—easiest way to stay in the loop, get the information before anyone else does. It was a necessity, after I started working for Erin. She needed to know how things were going to land before they even happened, and she wasn't the kind of person whom people really opened up to, ya know?"

"So you became her eyes and ears." His tone was neutral, but she could see a small tinge of admiration at the corner of his eyes.

"It was my job," she gave a nonchalant shrug. They both knew it was a lie—she was a secretary, her job was to answer phones and make copies and keep track of schedules and meetings. Personal informant wasn't in that description.

So instead of pointing out the obvious, Rossi simply stated the truth behind her behavior, "You cared about her."

"I do," she replied, blue eyes still focused on the building ahead of them (and he noted her use of the present tense).

"She wasn't always an easy person to like," he pointed out.

Now she turned back to him, "It didn't stop you, either."

He gave a light chuckle, unable to deny the statement.

A commotion at the front of the building caught their attention—someone was trying to run back inside, despite the best efforts of a few Marines.

Rossi's heart stopped when he recognized the forms racing towards the building.

There was only one reason why his team would be charging back into the disaster zone.

His chest was tight, as if a band of steel had been wrapped around his lungs. He could barely whisper, "Oh, God, no."

* * *

_**Somewhere between New York City and Quantico.**_

Rowena Lewis was going to be sick. In general, flying made her ill, which meant she had to take a huge dose of Dramamine before taking a flight—however, this time she wouldn't have several hours on a plane to sleep it off (she'd be there in an hour, and she'd have to be awake and alert to hit the ground running), and they'd left in such a rush that she'd forgotten her pills in her desk anyways.

Needless to say, the helicopter ride had been a uniquely nauseous form of hell. She'd gripped the underside of her seat, nails digging into the worn leather as she'd physically tried to regain control of her roiling mind and churning stomach.

True to form, Jeff had noticed her unease (after all, he knew about her motion sickness better than anyone else) and had gently placed a reassuring hand over her white-tipped knuckles, offering a sympathetic smile.

"You won't smile like that when I blow chunks all over your nice shoes," she'd informed him.

He'd laughed.

Now they were on a small jet, something steadier than the swaying of the helicopter, but the motion sickness had already taken its hold—Rowena's eyes felt like they could pop out of their sockets as the stress and illness continued to roll against her brain like relentless waves upon a hapless shore.

"Here," Jeff appeared at her side with a small bundle of napkins, dampened and flattened into a makeshift compress. She accepted with a grateful smile, reclining her seat as she applied the compress to her forehead.

"You're such a good mommy," she commented, the grin evident in her tone. Her eyes were closed, hidden beneath the damp napkins, but Jeff knew that if he could see them, they'd be dancing in that mischievous way that can only be described as _Roe_.

"Someone's gotta look after you," he returned drolly, slipping back into his own seat beside her. "Delicate flower that you are."

She gave a rather unladylike snort at that last comment, hand raising blindly to flip him off.

His grin only widened in response as they settled into a comfortable silence.

Adelaide Macaraeg watched this entire exchange with curious eyes, completely aware of the fact that she was staring. Agent Lewis had a reputation for being a bit of a charmer, and Masterson had a reputation for being her constant companion. No one had dared to say that there might be something there, but the implication hadn't been lost in the least. Mac had chalked it up to the usual water-cooler bullshit (agents who spent too much time in the office instead of the field started imagining things, trying to make the day-to-day pencil-pushing more exciting), but now that she saw the little moments and interactions with her own eyes, she suddenly began to doubt her former certainty that nothing but friendship existed between those two.

She hoped her doubts were wrong—she'd seen the wedding ring on Masterson's finger, and she hated to think of what kind of man that would make him. For his wife's sake, she'd give them the benefit of the doubt.

Of course, she also knew what it was like to be on the other side of such an equation—there'd been a few times where she'd adopted a "work husband", and tongues had set to wagging over every glance, every smile, every joke shared between them. It had been infuriating, having her own morality and professional ethics called into question (but not even _questioned_ really, just automatically assumed as somehow lacking, and _that_ was the rub she couldn't bear), having to alter the way she interacted with a man who was nothing but the deepest and dearest friend, just to appease some herd mentality about men and women's inability to just be friends.

She'd been crucified on that cross before, and she wouldn't allow herself to build the same construct against another. She couldn't become like the ones who'd caused so much distress in her own life—it was a strange hill to fight and die on, but she mentally drew her line in the sand and promised herself that she'd never cross it.

Masterson noticed her scrutiny, offering a polite smile, which she returned. He kept his voice low, as if he feared disturbing his partner, "I thought you were supposed to be on vacation this week."

"I was," her smile became embarrassed, yet tinged with self-amusement. "I, uh, brought some files home with me and realized that I needed to return them, just in case you guys needed them this week—so as my luck would have it, I happened to be in my office at the exact moment that Impastoli called."

He grinned at this. "Lemme guess—he gave you the 'you're a true agent who always answers the call' speech."

Her eyes widened in surprise, and then she laughed. "I just got played by Casey Impastoli, didn't I?"

"Happens to the best of us. It's part of what makes him an effective SAC, I think—I mean, who can refuse after a line like that?"

"True, true," she gave an amused nod, turning to look out the window. The mid-morning sun was blasting through the cabin windows at full force, making her eyes gleam an odd golden hue. Regret stirred at their corners as she quietly admitted, "I'm supposed to be flying out for my daughter's graduation today."

He understood the statement—she wasn't blaming Impastoli, or even herself. It was just another casualty of the job. Jeff Masterson was silently grateful that he and his wife never had children. Lori was good with kids, but she'd never wanted any of her own, and honestly, with the way their careers turned out, it was probably a good thing. She was a theatre set designer, spending long hours sketching and overseeing construction and perusing warehouses for materials, and he spent equally-long hours at the office or in the field. He felt guilty enough about the times he had to leave her for a case—he couldn't imagine how much worse it would be if there was a child involved.

He quietly steered the conversation to safer waters, simply admitting, "Until today, I didn't even know you had kids."

"Just the one," Mac turned back to him with a smile. "Emma. She just earned her master's in engineering at the University of Wisconsin."

"Wow. You must be very proud."

"I am," her smile became softer. She didn't want to get all mushy on her coworker, but truth be told, Emma could be playing a guitar on the street corner and she'd be just as proud—her daughter was strong and smart and compassionate, all the things she could ever hope for (all the things that could never change, no matter what her education level or financial situation may be). It hadn't been easy, being a single mother, and Adelaide knew there were times that Emma had taken care of herself, due to her mother's work-related absence. Emma had never complained, though, never given her mother a second's worth of blame (which in turn had only added to Adelaide's sense of guilt, seeing how selfless her daughter had been), and over the years, Adelaide had realized that there were many times that her daughter took care of her, instead of the other way around. Yes, raising a daughter alone had been hard at times, but life without Emma would have been so much harder. That source of light had saved her tired soul after many a long and draining day—it had kept her from making bad decisions, kept her from being too foolhardy or reckless, kept her from thinking there was no hope in the world. She'd contributed to milestone cases, put away some of the worst kinds of ilk, but Adelaide knew that her life's greatest work was being semi-responsible for creating and molding a brilliant young woman currently in Madison, Wisconsin. And while she definitely was proud of her daughter, her strongest emotion was gratitude—gratefulness at being allowed to have such a part in such a life.

With another light sigh, she added, "I dunno what I'm gonna do—I just don't see this case wrapping up in two days, I just don't."

"Maybe you can fly out for the day—take a red-eye back that night," Jeff suggested, knowing how unlikely that scenario would be, even in the best of circumstances.

Still, Mac gave a small smile of gratefulness for his attempted help. "Ah, I'll figure something out. Where there's a will, there's a way, right?"

He nodded in agreement.

She settled back into her seat, trying to get comfortable, "We'll just have to see how big of a mess we've got waiting on us. If I think you and Lewis can handle it on your own for a day or two, then I'll definitely go."

"Why didn't they call in a closer team?" Jeff echoed Shelley Gosslee's question from earlier.

Mac frowned, "Casey said something about the D.C. bomb squad being at a training seminar or something like that. Though I would think that would put them at Quantico, since that's where most of our seminars happen. And he's called in another team from Richmond, purely to run the investigative side of things—we're just playing the techies on this one, I'm afraid."

"I don't mind," he assured her, holding up his hands. "Our last big case—the ANAM case in Nairobi—Roe and I were stuck playing techies, and I gotta say, I didn't envy the lead investigators on that one."

"Got pretty hairy, huh?" The corner of her mouth quirked in amusement.

"Real quick," he added. "And with half a dozen different agencies involved—made my head spin, and I was just the guy collecting bomb fragments."

"How'd that case turn out again?" Mac furrowed her brow as she tried to recall. "I remember reading about it at the time—the main guy was caught, but something happened…."

"A Senegalese war criminal named Mariatu Wasaki was the mastermind behind the attack—apparently he'd been on Interpol's most wanted list for about a decade. The JTTF finally tracked him down, but when they went to arrest him, he took his own life."

His supervisor made a small noise of understanding. "Those types never are the kind to surrender."

Jeff gave a nod, turning to look out the window over Roe's shoulder. He didn't tell Mac the truth—that he and Rowena had been part of a cover-up. Emily Prentiss, who as Interpol Chief was heading the investigation, had asked them to back up her lie that Wasaki had killed himself. The truth was that Ahoo Shir-Del, a young Canadian agent, had killed him in self-defense, but being the one who finally took out Wasaki would put a price on her own head from other terrorist organizations looking for retribution—and though Jeff had felt that this wasn't what really happened, he'd agreed, along with Rowena, to aid in the lie that Prentiss had crafted. Rowena had known they weren't getting the full story either, but she'd reasoned that it was "close enough" to the whole truth, and whatever else was being hidden was also in an attempt to protect another agent. While Jeff Masterson felt absolutely no guilt about what he'd done, he'd often wondered what exactly did happen.

Macaraeg was glancing at her phone again, lips pressed in a thin line of concern and frustration. "Looks like we might not be able to get to work right away—apparently the rescue missions are taking longer than expected. An elevator just collapsed; they're rushing agents to the hospital now."

She made a small clucking sound, "Sounds like every agent's worst nightmare."

"Can't say I didn't expect the same thing to happen to us in 2001," Jeff admitted softly.

She glanced up again, her naturally harsh features softening in understanding—by _2001_, he meant _after September 11__th_. It had taken years for the New York field office to feel safe again, months and weeks of held breaths and stricter security measures and will-we-be-next's. Adelaide had been stationed at the Albany field office at the time (she'd left the city a few years prior, wanting Emma to grow up somewhere safer), and she'd felt guilty over how relieved she was to be away from it all. Albany wasn't exactly the idyllic pastoral center of peace, but at least it wasn't in any real danger of ever being bombed.

"We've gotta catch this guy," she said quietly, the edges of her tone filled with resolve. "We've gotta catch him, and we've gotta catch him fast. We can't allow someone to get away with hurting our people like this."

Agent Masterson nodded in agreement, "I'm with ya, Boss."

She gave a heavy sigh, her voice drifting away, as if her thoughts were too dark to complete themselves, "You just…you know it's out there, but you can't ever imagine how…."

He gave a hum of agreement.

"We'll catch the bastard," Roe's voice, slightly groggy with illness, interrupted the conversation. "It's what we do."

"You're still awake?" Jeff was surprised.

"I'm sick, not dead," his partner returned drolly. Her mouth curled into a wry grin.

"We'll try and get you something when we land," Macaraeg informed her, tone laced with compassion. "A nice cup of peppermint tea, something like that."

The younger woman smiled again, something softer. "That sounds wonderful."

And in that moment, Rowena Lewis decided that she really did like her new supervisor.

* * *

_**Quantico, Virginia.**_

David Rossi's worst fears were confirmed when he heard Derek Morgan's hoarse screams as he called out JJ's name again and again. His heart stopped and his stomach plummeted as his blood chilled in his veins.

This wasn't how it was supposed to end. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, not at all.

Carrington recognized the rest of the BAU, and she turned back to Rossi, her voice the lightest of whispers, "I'm sorry, Agent Rossi. I'm so—"

"We don't know yet," he tried to force the tears out of his voice. "We don't know for sure."

She ducked her head in response, and he knew the words she didn't speak—and he was grateful for her silence, for her attempt not to add to his worry and his dread.

His heart kept whispering the mantra, his only lifeline as the seconds ticked by, keeping time with the heart pounding in his throat, _We don't know yet, we don't know, we don't, we don't, we don't…._

* * *

The ugly metallic shrieking ended with a horrific crash which shook the walls of the stairwell, but that wasn't what made Penelope Garcia fill with hysteria—it was all the cries and shouts afterwards.

Someone was in that elevator. Someone who didn't make it out in time.

Penelope began to cry again. This was too much—being forced to listen to the sounds of death and disaster swirling around her, while she was stuck in the darkness, fighting for her own survival.

She sagged against the wall, letting her face press against the cool concrete as she continued to sob—grief and guilt and sadness and fear sapped all the strength from her limbs, and she felt like a butterfly pinned to a board, helpless and hopeless. Her knees bled, her ankle ached, but the worst pain was in her heart, which wanted to scream and wail at the insanity and injustice of it all.

Penelope Garcia saw violence every day—mainly the aftereffects, the remains of some violent act or another. She knew violence, in all its varied forms, had held its hand and walked through many a quiet night with it, despite her own distaste. But for all her time spent among the trappings and remnants of such evil, she would never truly _understand_ violence. It was so…senseless. Senseless and baseless and far too random to be just or fair.

"I can't be here anymore," she told herself, through the tears. She pushed herself from the wall, "I've got—I've got to get out of here. I can't be here. I can't—"

Her tears renewed themselves when she began to push the coffee table to the edge of the next set of stairs—her poor knees were shrieking in agony now, every movement as painful as a hot poker iron against her skin. Still, she pushed forward, gritting her teeth as she tried not to think about the pain (which of course, only made her think about it _more_).

"You can do this." She repeated the words over and over again, letting them simply become part of her breathing. It wasn't about needing a pep talk—right now, she had to keep moving, and if she started crying again, she'd stop moving, so talking aloud was the only way to keep the hysterical sobbing at bay. She kept whispering the phrase to herself, using them to numb her mind with their thoughtless speed. "You can do this, you can do this, you can do this."

She made it down another entire flight of stairs, thanks to her mindless chanting.

However, Penelope Garcia had not properly considered the sledding merits of her coffee table—and as she began to push off for another jaunt down the steps, she suddenly realized her mistake. There was an odd groan, then a cracking sound as the table dipped too far forward, the corner catching on a step and splitting into several pieces, all of which went tumbling down the stairs with Penelope in tow.

She landed on her back, arms curled instinctively around her head for protection, nausea from her injured ankle compounding with the swirling motion of her roll down the stairs. She lay there, clutching her forehead as the world continued to spin and tremble, her disorientation only furthered by the complete darkness surrounding her.

She wasn't losing consciousness, but fatigue was settling into every bone in her body. She knew that she should sit up, check herself for further injuries, but that would hurt so much and really, hadn't she hurt enough?

_Just a few minutes. I can rest for a few minutes. They'll be here to save me soon_.

* * *

Derek Morgan stopped fighting the Marines long enough to whirl back around to his unit chief, "Hotch, we've gotta get in there!"

He saw his own terror and hysteria mirrored in the faces of his team members—Reid was slowly slumping into the arms of the Marines who were holding him back, and Hotch had stopped struggling as well, taking a step back though his eyes remained transfixed on the building's entrance.

O'Donnell was there in a flash, brow furrowed in consternation. "Hotchner, I told you, no damn heroics—"

"One of my team is in that elevator," Hotch turned around quickly, his voice edged with an uncustomary panic. "You can't just expect us to stand here—she's one of ours—"

"I understand, I really do—"

"No, sir—all due respect, but you don't," Hotch was becoming calmer now, his mental acuity taking a biting edge as he used it against the man who would dare stand between him and his team. "We've got two team members unaccounted for—one completely MIA, the other probably down an elevator shaft—and we've been as patient as we could. They're more than just our colleagues, sir."

"I _understand_," O'Donnell reassured him, this time a little more forcefully. "But be reasonable, Hotchner—there's nothing any of you can do. We've got medical personnel in there, ready to help each person as they're brought out of the elevator. So unless you've got a medical degree that I don't know about, there isn't anything—"

"Penelope," Derek spoke up, moving back to him with a sense of determination that was almost frightening. "Even if we can't help JJ, we're still missing another person. Let us go in with one of the rescue teams—please. We need to find her."

O'Donnell hesitated—and in that moment, Hotch knew that he was on their side, though he could never admit it.

So instead, Hotch saw the only way out. He glanced at Morgan, taking a moment to simply make eye contact, hoping against hope that the other man would understand what happened next.

Hotch made a run for it again—this time going between Morgan and the Marines who'd held him back. They immediately sprang forward to stop him.

Apparently Derek Morgan had understood, because he breezed past at a sprint that no heavily-outfitted Marine could ever hope to catch. Hotch stopped fighting, simply watching as his friend bolted through the entrance of the main building.

O'Donnell cursed, turning away and spinning back again, rubbing his chin in frustration before setting his hands on his hips, "Dammit, Hotchner! I told you—"

He didn't finish his statement, merely giving an angry wave of dismissal at the Marines, who had already abandoned Hotch to give chase to Morgan (a futile effort, for that man was long gone). With another dark look at the BAU unit chief, he warned, "There will be repercussions for this, Agent Hotchner."

Hotch merely gave a nod of understanding and acceptance, which actually only further infuriated his SAC.

"What the hell?" Kate Callahan had finally managed to wiggle her way through the barricade to the rest of the team. Setting her hands on her hips, she looked at Hotch in amazement, "What happened to playing by the rules so that we can stay in the loop?"

He glanced over at Spencer, whose terror-stricken face was still turned to the entrance, watching the medical teams rush in with stretchers and med kits.

"There are some things worth risking."

She scoffed lightly at this, shaking her head. "You've fucked us over, Hotch—no disrespect intended, but you have."

"I know," he admitted quietly. "And JJ and Garcia would have done the same for us."

"I'll go smooth things over with O'Donnell," she offered.

He gave a slight frown, "He already agrees with us, as much as he doesn't want to."

"Really? Because his tone didn't sound very agreeable."

"He hesitated."

"What?"

"Morgan asked to go in. O'Donnell hesitated. He wanted to say yes, but that would mean backtracking on his previous order. I gave him a way out."

"Plausible deniability," Kate suddenly understood, her tone low and laced with wonder.

Hotch nodded.

"That also puts your head on the chopping block," she pointed out.

"There are some things worth risking," he repeated quietly.

She took a moment to stare at him, in a mixture of wonder and regret. This man truly was one of the good guys—one of the best.

Sadly, that trait wouldn't keep him from the wrath of the powers that be, not by a long shot. Kate had the sinking feeling that Aaron Hotchner had just sealed his fate.

Spencer was standing beside them again, thin face etched with worry. "What do we do, Hotch?"

"We wait. For now." With a slight glance over his shoulder, he added, "Besides, I don't think that same trick will work twice."

"Quick thinking," Reid complimented. Kate looked at him in shock (these people really were derelicts, worse than every water-cooler tale she'd heard before joining the BAU).

Hotch nodded, and they settled into an anxious silence.

Minute after agonizing minute ticked by. Kate quietly slipped away to talk to O'Donnell, who confirmed what Hotch had suspected—he understood the BAU's desire to rescue their own, but he couldn't condone it, lest it open the floodgates for every agent to go back inside looking for coworkers and friends. It was already a debacle, and having agents defy orders only added to the chaos.

"You haven't been here long enough to understand them like I do," O'Donnell informed her, though his tone wasn't unkind or arrogant. "The BAU has a reputation for going against the grain—it's to be expected, almost. There have been discussions about the closeness of the unit—they're too close, in some people's opinions. When agents get too close, they lose the ability to rationalize and keep a clear head when one of them is in danger. It's the same reason that we don't allow fraternization between agents—it creates a lack of professional boundaries, as exhibited here today in _several_ instances, might I add. I've always been one to defend them, but I just—I can't condone this behavior, and I certainly can't look away and pretend as if it hasn't happened."

"I understand, sir," Callahan looked down at the ground. Then, with the lightest air of apprehensive hesitancy, she added, "I just…I don't want this to jeopardize our chances at being allowed to work this case. Regardless of their inability to keep boundaries or follow orders, they are your best shot at finding whoever did this."

The grimace on his face informed her that he was well aware of that fact.

She reached out, lightly placing her hand on his forearm, which was currently crossed over his chest, "I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, Scott. I'm just saying—let us do our job, too. We're all on the same team here."

He gave a small nod, indicating that he'd take her plea under consideration. "We'll have to see what the Flying J's decide first—if everyone's cleared from the suspect pool, then the BAU can step in to help with the profile."

"The Flying J's?"

O'Donnell's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "The team from Richmond. You'll understand, once they get here."

Then with another moue of distaste, he added, "I'll have them look at the BAU first—the sooner you're off the suspect list, the sooner you can get to work."

She nodded in understanding. Glancing back at the hundreds of agents and personnel assembled on the grounds, she shook her head, "I don't envy them—that's a helluva lot of people to interview."

He sighed, hesitant to share his next thought, "I am considering the idea of having people stay overnight—I can't risk letting the bomber go home free, never to return to work again. Though I'm sure that will go over about as well as a lead balloon."

"It might be necessary," she gently agreed with him. Then, moving closer again, she kept her tone low, confidential, "I know you're not letting us offer a profile until we're cleared, but you need to be aware now—don't pay attention to the people who protest staying overnight. Look at the ones who comply without complaint. If our bomber's here, he's trying to fit in at all costs—making a scene by protesting would be the exact opposite of that."

He took a moment to study her, considering her words. Then, with a single nod, he agreed.

Realizing that she'd done as much as she could without pushing too hard, Kate Callahan offered one last supportive smile before moving back to her colleagues.

"I think he's OK now," she informed Hotch quietly, tucking her hands into the back pockets of her slacks.

He nodded in silent thanks, his mind still too preoccupied with worry for his team.

The medical teams came out with a stretcher—a man in a neck brace. However, instead of releasing tension, this only added to it.

O'Donnell appeared beside them again, his mouth pressed into a thin line of apprehension as the next stretcher came out.

"It's JJ," Reid breathed, his entire body suddenly feeling like Jello. Then he snapped back to reality, turning to the others, his face pale and shadowed with conflicting impulses.

Scott O'Donnell gave a heavy sigh, his own expression one of pained compassion—he could tell just by looking at the younger man that Spencer Reid was fighting against every fiber in his body, just to stand here instead of rushing to his friend's side.

"Go," O'Donnell nodded towards the ambulance. "Tell 'em you've been cleared by me."

He'd barely finished his sentence before Dr. Reid shot off, hurrying to his friend's side. Suddenly the distance to the entrance felt like a thousand miles, and Spencer was running through water or snow—his legs couldn't move fast enough to reach her.

"JJ! JJ, I'm here," he finally made it, scaring the EMTs with his sudden burst of arrival.

"You know her?" One of the EMTs looked at him.

"Yeah—I'm the godfather to her son, please—let me go with her."

The EMT nodded, motioning for him to step aside while they loaded the stretcher. "She's conscious, but disoriented. We need her to stay awake. She could use a familiar face right now—but if I tell you to move out of the way, you get in a fucking corner and let me do my job, alright?"

"Absolutely," Spencer clutched the strap of his messenger bag, waiting for the other EMT to climb inside before he joined them. He sat on the bench next to JJ's stretcher, reaching up to gently place a hand on her shoulder. He couldn't keep the tears of relief from his voice as he assured her, "JJ, I'm here. It's going to be OK."

"Spence?" Her voice was hoarse, cracked with pain and confusion. She didn't open her eyes—her left eye socket was so swollen that it would have been impossible to open her left eye anyways.

"I'm here." He fought every impulse to squeeze her shoulder or to hug her, knowing that it could possibly cause more pain and injury. "I'm right here. And right now, I need you to stay awake, and stay with me. It's going to be alright. Just stay."

"Heh-Henry…"

"Henry's safe. I'll call Will—he and Henry can meet us at the hospital."

She closed her mouth, tried to swallow—somehow he understood that she was agreeing.

"But JJ, I need you to stay awake right now—Henry needs you to stay awake. You have to stay awake so that you can see him—"

Spencer stopped, reaching for his phone so that he could call Will. His hands fumbled fruitlessly through his pockets.

He turned to the first EMT, "I've lost my phone. May I please borrow yours, to contact her husband?"

The woman nodded, pulling her phone from a bag underneath the bench.

Spencer counted the rings, his eyes still focused on his friend's face, which was bruised and battered beyond recognition.

"JJ? Stay with me. Let me know you're with me."

"With..th…yuh-you…"

"That's right, with me. With me. Just stay with me. Please. Stay with me."

* * *

_"There is a place that I once knew  
cold and frightening and bitterly blue  
if you should find yourself there too  
I'll hold your hand and walk with you"_

_~Andre Jordan._


	8. Special Providence

**Special Providence**

"_I think about how scared you must be, how you're in some dark place all alone, but you're not alone, okay? You are not alone. We are in that dark place with you. We are waving flashlights and calling your name. So if you can see us, come home. But if you can't, then, then you stay alive, because we're coming."_

_~Breen Frazier, writing as Penelope talking to Emily (Eps 6.18: Lauren)._

* * *

_***Author's Note: Events set in the 2007 flashbacks are taken from Eps 3.8: Lucky and 3.9: Penelope. The lines of dialogue in the second flashback belong to Chris Mundy, who wrote that particular episode.**_

_**Also, I went back to those episodes to see if I could find a name for the hospital where Penelope was treated, but didn't see anything…however, the ICU setup is identical to the one Hotch is in for 5.1: Faceless, Nameless. So I decided that Penelope had stayed at the same hospital, Saint Sebastian Medical Center. (But, seriously, if someone else paid closer attention and did see or hear a hospital name, lemme know!)**_

_**And though the episode never mentions the name of the church in which Morgan prays, based on the vestments hanging to the right of the altar, I'm assuming it's an Episcopal church—the priest's green stole is embroidered with the Chi Rho, which I've only ever seen on Episcopalian stoles, never Catholic (and again, I could be wrong on that point—and if I am, let me know).**_

_**I have no idea why you should know this, but now you do. Enjoy your dose of random info for the day.**_

_**Also, Annber03 covers this particular episode in her 50 One-Word One Shots series (Ch 27, FYI). Definitely worth the read.***_

* * *

**November 2007. St. Mark's Episcopal Church, Washington, D.C.**

Derek Morgan had stared at the altar for so long that his vision had become blurry, the jewel tones of the altar cloth and the stained glass windows muting together like an odd kaleidoscope of religious iconography. His mind had wandered the same winding paths for the past two hours, and he was no closer to an answer than he'd been when he first set foot inside.

_If you believe in one, you have to believe in the other._ Rossi's words from earlier that evening echoed in his mind.

He believed in evil. Floyd Feylinn Ferell and his cannibalistic tendencies confirmed that belief; every UNSUB he'd ever hunted confirmed it. Carl Buford confirmed it—there wasn't one devil, there were many, walking among the unsuspecting and the innocent, quietly waiting for their next chance to attack. They left behind scars and howling demons in the minds of their victims, vicious voices that whispered the worst of things (_it's your fault, it's always been your fault, you did this to yourself_).

The problem was that he wasn't sure he believed in God—in some higher power that somehow restored balance and justice to the world, someone or something that witnessed the daily evils and did nothing to stop them, some all-knowing deity that supposedly loved his creation yet allowed it to suffer in such horrible ways. He didn't _want_ to believe in such a thing. He wanted to believe there was a God who somehow reached out to protect his children, someone who orchestrated events for the greater good—but the sad, fearful truth was that Derek Morgan had seen too many things that spoke in direct opposition to such a concept.

But now, he needed to believe. He couldn't explain why or how, but there was an urgency in his spirit, a restlessness in his soul that pleaded for some sense of higher purpose to the world, some kind of divine order in the chaos and destruction of his reality. He needed to believe that all things would work out for the good of mankind, that the evil he saw on a daily basis somehow could be turned into something…_noble_. He didn't know why he needed it, only that he knew he did.

If God was there, he wasn't in a talkative mood—Derek had made several attempts to pray, ranging from simply reciting prayers he'd learned as a child to having frank, open dialogue of his own wording, and nothing had elicited a divine response.

_Please. Just show me you're there. Show me something, anything. Please, give me a sign._

His mind went back to his Sunday School days, to the story of Gideon—God had told him to lead Israel out of idolatry, but Gideon had asked for three signs to prove that it was truly God's will, all of which God fulfilled. Derek Morgan hadn't been asked to lead a nation; he just wanted to know that God was really there (a small request that seemed completely reasonable, in his mind, though the Man Upstairs apparently disagreed).

Time lagged on, and the heavens kept silent. Morgan felt trapped, like his words simply bounced off the ceiling, falling back to his feet in useless piles. His entire being felt numb, and his brain refused to cooperate with this exercise in futility anymore.

He stood, casting one last doleful glance at the altar, engraved with those familiar words. '_Do this in remembrance of me'—God, how can I remember someone who's never even shown themselves to me?_

The cool November air cleared the fog from his brain, the iciness cutting into his lungs and bringing him back to the land of the living. He slipped his cellphone from his back pocket, turning it on once more.

He immediately knew something was wrong—his phone began to ring and buzz with notifications of voicemails, missed calls, and text messages.

The first text he saw was from Emily. Even though it was just words, he could still hear the irritated concern in her tone, _Where the hell are you?_

Something was very wrong. He went to his voicemail. The first one was from Hotch. "Morgan, it's Hotchner. There's a situation with Penelope. Please call me as soon as you get this."

He didn't take the time to listen to the others—he simply took off, sprinting to his truck and revving the engine as his shaking hands dialed Hotch's number. His heart was pounding so loudly that he could barely hear anything else as the phone rang.

"Morgan," Hotch answered, the relief evident in his voice.

"What's going on? Is she OK?"

"She's been shot—she's in surgery right now."

"Where?"

"Saint Sebastian."

"I'm on my way." He slammed the truck into gear and gunned it.

"We're already here, in the waiting area. Second floor," Hotch informed him.

"I'll be there." He'd already begun to feel guilty about the fact that he had not been there when this first happened—he should have been the first one at her side.

His heart stayed firmly lodged in his throat the whole time, pounding against his vocal chords in a rhythm that was both uncomfortable and nauseating.

This time, he prayed—not to any far-off deity, but to the blonde woman currently on an operating table ten miles away.

_Don't leave me, Babygirl. Stay strong—keep fighting, keep holding on, keep trying, for me. I can't lose you. Please, please, please._

* * *

_**February 2015. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Derek Morgan ran as if his life depended on it—because in a way, it did. He couldn't give those Marines another chance to keep him from finding his Babygirl.

He checked his stride long enough to stop a group of rescue workers who were bringing down another set of injured survivors, holding out his hands in a gesture of askance, "Which areas have been covered?"

"We started on the southeastern side, closest to the blast. We're moving outwards from there."

Derek nodded, moving towards the closest stairwell—the one on the northwestern corner. He opened the door, only to be greeted by sheer blackness. He looked back towards the rescue workers, his mind trying to process everything at once.

He spotted someone with exactly what he needed, "Hey, man, lemme borrow your flashlight."

The man gave it up without a second's hesitation. Derek bolted into the stairwell once again. He went up the stairs, calling out her name, occasionally stopping to listen for a reply, though none came. He stopped on each floor, rushing down the main hallways, calling out and hoping against all hope that she'd somehow hear him and reply.

He checked her office, which was empty and suddenly devoid of its usual cheeriness.

On the eighth floor, he ran the entire length of the building, shouting her name like a man possessed. He opened the doors to the southeastern stairwell, taking a moment to simply yell out, "Penelope!"

He took a moment to listen, his heavy breathing echoing through the confined space, making it harder to hear (especially with the pulse pounding in his head as well).

There was something—a noise, faint and barely perceptible.

He called out again, "Penelope, can you hear me?"

Another noise. A voice from below. He rushed down another flight of stairs, pausing again to call her name.

He heard stirring, followed by a call of, "I'm here!"

The voice was weak, seared with pain, but God above, he'd recognize that voice anywhere, in any condition.

"Oh, Babygirl," he breathed in relief, billowing down the stairs as quickly as his legs would carry him, the single beam of his flashlight bouncing wildly off the walls. He found her on the landing between the fourth and third floors, in a bloody, mangled heap of wood.

"What the hell?" He knelt beside her, gingerly moving away the pieces of wood, trying to check her body for injuries. Her knees were coated in a thick, dark layer of blood, her hands were scratched and bloody as well, her forearms were covered with marks, and her cat-eyed glasses were completed shattered. "Penelope, are you OK?"

"My ankle—it's broken. I was trying to get down…I used a coffee table as a sled, but it broke." She was pushing herself into a sitting position again, her strength renewing itself at the comforting sight of her beloved dark knight.

"Let's get you out of here," he rose to his feet again, pulling her up on her one good leg.

"My shoes," she glanced around, and Derek couldn't stop the incredulous scoff that slipped from his lips (though he still found the bright orange pumps and retrieved them from the wreckage).

"C'mon," he handed her the shoes and the flashlight before easily sweeping her off her feet, gingerly taking the first few steps down the stairs again. "We're gonna take it nice and slow, and we're gonna get you out of here."

"I knew you'd come for me," she gave a relieved lazy smile, taking a moment to nestle her head against his.

"Of course, Babygirl. That's all part of the job description—rescuing fair maidens in peril. And when I'm really lucky, I get to carry off a foxy warrior woman."

She grinned, "Then this must be the luckiest day of your life."

Derek Morgan felt a sobering lump in his throat, his grip instinctively tightening around the woman in his arms, "It is."

Those words rang truer than she could ever know.

* * *

_**November 2007. Saint Sebastian Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

Derek Morgan pushed back another wave of helpless panic as he turned away—Hotch had just informed him that so far, the detectives on Penelope's case were not hopeful about finding any evidence at the crime scene, which in turn meant there wouldn't be anything to help establish some kind of lead.

The surgeon was approaching, and Derek's heart forgot to beat. He tried to read the surgeon's body language, looking for a sign of the news to come.

"Penelope Garcia?" The surgeon asked, more out of custom than actual query—there was only one patient on the operating table at this hour of the night, and these people all moved easily around one another, implying they were together as one big support group.

"Yes," Hotch's voice was as calm as ever. Derek stepped forward, mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He heard Emily echo Hotch's response, her tone small and breathless with the same fear and dread that was filling every muscle of his own body.

With one last glance at his notes to make sure he had everything right, the surgeon launched into a quick explanation. "The bullet went in her chest and ricocheted into her abdomen. She lost a lot of blood."

Derek felt his own blood seep out of his veins, his body preparing for the worst shock it could ever expect.

"It was touch-and-go for a while, but we were able to repair the injuries."

"So what are you saying?" JJ asked, her face still filled with apprehension. The weird energy of tension still sang from one team member to the next, every muscle tensed as they collectively awaited the final pronouncement on Penelope's condition.

"One centimeter over and it would have torn right through her heart. Instead, she could actually walk out of here in a couple of days. And I'd say that's a minor miracle."

A miracle. The word breathed across Derek's brain. Less than an hour ago, he'd asked the heavens for some kind of confirmation, anything to prove that there was some higher power at work in the world around him. On the frantic drive to the hospital, he'd fearfully wondered if Penelope's shooting had been a further indication of the opposite.

However, now he stood in a tiny hospital waiting room, relief surging through his tired veins as a small voice in his head quietly whispered, _Derek Morgan, there's your sign_.

* * *

_**February 2015. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"We're almost there, Babygirl," he assured her, his heart soaring at the sight of the first floor stairwell door, which shone under the bobbing beam of the flashlight in Penelope's hand.

"Oh thank goodness," she breathed a sigh of relief. "As much as I'm enjoying our time alone in the dark, I'd really like to get the heck out of here."

He had to stop to laugh, bowing his head slightly as he tried to keep his feet steady on the stairs and his grip tightly around the woman in his arms. She was laughing, too, a skittering giggle still shaking with tears and pain and relief.

"You know this makes us crazy, don't you?" She asked, wiping away a tear. "Laughing at a moment like this?"

"We've always been crazy," he returned easily. He slowly resumed his downward trek, feeling a weight of concern lifting from his shoulders as soon as they reached the bottom and entered the main foyer—the area was teeming with medics and rescue workers, which meant he'd finally gotten them where they needed to be.

An EMT noticed them and called for a stretcher. Within seconds, Penelope was seated upright, being whisked out the door as a medic asked her questions about her injuries. Derek followed close behind, silently letting them know that there was no way in hell that this woman was leaving his sight again.

He took a moment to stop once they got outside, looking back to the barricades where he'd left the others.

Hotch gave a slight wave of his hand, his face filled with askance. Derek gave a silent thumbs up (_she's gonna be alright_), and even from a hundred yards away, he could see the shift in Hotch's body language, the huge sigh of relief rippling through his shoulders. Then Derek nodded back in the direction of the ambulance (_I'm with her_), to which Hotch gave a nod in return (_go_).

However, there was a problem once he reached the ambulance.

"I'm sorry, sir," the EMT's face filled with regret. "She's in non-critical condition, and we're trying to load up as many as we can that need medical attention—we just don't have the room for an extra body who isn't injured or one of our personnel."

"I'll be fine," Penelope called from inside the ambulance, her voice lilting with false cheeriness. "Go save more fair maidens. It's OK. I promise."

He hesitated for a moment (and for that, she loved him all the more—because even as the world was crumbling down around them, all he wanted was to be there to hold her hand), then he glanced back at the building, at all the agents standing around in fear and dismay. Still, he turned back to her, his features a mask of determination, "I will see you soon, Babygirl."

"Count on it, Hot Stuff," she gave her most winning smile, which somehow only seemed to accentuate the blood and dirt on her face. "Now go be the daring hero—just not _too_ daring, OK?"

He put his hand over his heart in silent promise. He saw those big doe eyes shimmer with fresh tears, and he was reminded once again of just how miraculous life could be—twice he'd lost her, twice he'd found her, and both times she was still as bright and beautiful as always.

More medics came, more injured joined the cab, and then the heavy doors were shut. Derek Morgan's miracle gave one last tiny flutter of her fingers through the glass window as the lumbering ambulance pulled away.

In that moment, he realized that if there was a God, then he loved Derek Morgan very, very much.

* * *

"_There are days when I think I don't believe anymore. When I think I've grown too old for miracles. And that's right when another seems to happen."__  
__~Dana Reinhardt__._

* * *

_***Author's Note: Although most of us are more familiar with the phrase "divine providence", Catholic theology divides Providence (aka God's intervention in the world) into two categories: General (continuous "upholding" of existence and the natural order), and Special (extraordinary intervention into a specific person's life, aka a miracle). Obviously, Morgan's story seemed to fit the latter.***_


	9. Reinforcements

**Reinforcements**

"_I have no regrets.__"_

_~Steven Gerrard__._

* * *

Derek Morgan didn't have to have eagle-vision to see that Scott O'Donnell was still unhappy about his mad-dash back into the building—he could see the anger and disapproval simmering from yards away as he slowly made his way back to the barricade.

He knew that he should apologize, but heaven help him, he couldn't (_wouldn't, never in a million years_). Based on the level of destruction he'd seen, coupled with the sheer size of the building itself, it could have been hours before someone had found Penelope—he would never have forgiven himself for allowing her to suffer alone in the dark for a single second longer than she already had.

"How is she?" Hotch asked as soon as he was within hearing range.

"She's gonna make it. Broken ankle, some pretty banged up knees," his jaw instinctively tightened as he remembered her shredded skin—he'd find the bastard responsible for all of this pain and misery, if it was the last thing he did. He forced himself to focus on the positive, adding, "Our girl's pretty resourceful—apparently she was in Cruz's office when the blast hit. Her ankle was broken, so she couldn't get down the stairs herself. So she used his coffee table as a sled."

Hotch smiled at the image of Penelope Garcia hurtling down the stairs like some new-age Boudicca, crazily-bejeweled hair billowing behind her. Resourceful indeed.

"Did she say anything about Cruz?" Hotch asked, his brow furrowing in concern.

Derek shook his head, "She said he wasn't in there. Hasn't seen him all morning."

"Reid's with JJ," Hotch supplied, knowing that would be Derek's next question. "They've already left for the hospital."

"When will we be allowed to leave?" Morgan glanced around anxiously.

"Not for a while," Callahan piped up, crossing her arms over her chest. With a tilt of her head in O'Donnell's direction, she continued, "Talked to Scott a few minutes ago—looks like they're going to put us in lockdown for a couple of hours, until everyone's cleared."

"Hours?" Morgan turned to look at the sea of agents behind them. "It could take _days_."

"We've been given priority," she assured him—a statement which elicited looks of surprise from both her colleagues. "I, uh, might have convinced O'Donnell that we were vital to the investigation, which meant we needed to be cleared first, so that we could get back to work as soon as possible."

Hotch's surprise was replaced with approval, "Good work, Kate."

"Looks like the cavalry has arrived," Kate gestured to the drive, where two big black SUVs were coming to a halt outside the mobile command center.

"Good," Derek set his hands on his hips, watching the agents get out of the car and make their way into the command center. "The sooner they start interviewing, the sooner we can get this guy."

Scott O'Donnell walked past them, sparing Derek Morgan a quick look (_don't think you got away with that little stunt you pulled_). The BAU agent merely gave a small nod of understanding, which only flustered O'Donnell more. Suddenly, he understood why the BAU hadn't been broken up and shipped off, despite their numerous infractions (lord knows he'd heard Erin Strauss rant and rave about it enough, over the years). They broke the rules, but dammit, they were always so penitent and agreeable afterwards. It made _you_ feel like the bad guy, just for enforcing protocol.

Jesus. No wonder Strauss drank like a fish.

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

This was the tenth time that Spencer Reid had reached into his pocket for his phone. The stress of waiting for JJ's prognosis was killer on his short-term memory, though he couldn't be concerned with the loss, since every ounce of his energy was focused on his friend.

He glanced at the clock on the wall again—he'd called Will on the ambulance ride, and JJ's husband had been understandably upset. He'd be here any minute now, with Henry in tow. As much as Spencer loved his godson, the thought of seeing him right now sent a flash of pain through his heart—to look in to that adorable, open, trusting face and pretend as if his world wasn't in danger of changing in the worst and most irrevocable of ways, who could do that?

JJ's face had been so swollen that doctors feared that the damage to her skull would cause bleeding and swelling on her brain. Right now, they were subjecting JJ to a round of x-rays and scans to determine what needed to be done before they put her on the operating table—a smart move, yet one that worried Spencer because it felt as if they were wasting precious time.

Spencer heard the steady pulse of someone's shoes on the waxed tile floors, like the impending rumble of a thunderhead, and he turned to see Will LaMontagne, with Henry on his hip.

"What's happening?" Will asked, his Louisiana drawl etched with fear.

"She's in x-ray right now," Spencer informed him. Henry made a small noise of happiness as he reached for his godfather, easily transferring into Spencer's arms.

"'Lo, Uncle Spence," Henry was beaming, blond hair falling into his eyes.

"Hey, buddy," Spencer found that smiling was much easier than he'd expected, when confronted with such a sweet face. He returned attention to Will, "They should take her in for surgery soon—she's got a few broken ribs, and it looks like her shoulder has been dislocated. Their main concern is the damage to her head."

"How bad is it?" Will hesitated, as if he didn't truly want the answer.

"I'm not sure. Her face was badly swollen—I'd say she has a concussion at the very least. They're trying to figure out exactly what the damage is before they go in to operate."

Will gave a terse nod, setting his hands on his hips as he looked around, completely helpless. He scrubbed his hand along his jawline, his face suddenly aging a decade.

"Do you ever hate how familiar this all feels?" He asked quietly, his voice lined with heartbreak. Spencer understood what he meant—hours and days spent in waiting rooms and at hospital bedsides, heart racing with fear and worry for the woman currently prepping for yet another emergency surgery.

"Every time," Spencer admitted, pushing down the lump in his throat. Henry's little fingers were playing with the collar of his sweater, and for a moment, he wished that he could share his godson's oblivion.

"You'd think we'd be used to it by now," Will tried to force a lighter, more playful tone into his words.

"I don't think I ever want to."

"Yeah," Will gave a heavy sigh. "Me neither."

* * *

_**Quantico, Virginia.**_

David Rossi watched the mobile command center with rapt interest. So far, he'd seen Spencer leave with JJ, and Derek Morgan reappear with Penelope (he'd inwardly cheered whenever he'd seen Morgan's great escape from the Marines, a move he'd have to personally congratulate Hotch for, later on).

The Marines had collected their cellphones as well, which meant there was no way for him to communicate with the rest of his team on the other side—however, Carrington had come to the rescue yet again. She'd talked to Sammy, her Marine friend, and had gotten him to radio over to another Marine at the other barricade. Through this game of telephone, Rossi had been able to find out that Garcia was relatively OK, while JJ's condition was unknown, since Spencer had no way to reach them. Rossi had promised to buy Carrington a bottle of the best wine he could find, in return for her help, but she'd merely smiled and said she was just glad to know everyone was OK (and he'd silently promised himself that he'd still buy her the wine).

Now that he knew his team was at least alive and accounted for, he turned his focus to the case itself. While he worried over Garcia and JJ, the sad truth was that he could do nothing to help them—so he had to focus on the things that he could do, which was start the profile for this sick bastard and get to the business of finding him as soon as possible.

The investigative team had arrived less than ten minutes ago—they'd immediately gone into the MCC van, where Scott O'Donnell had joined them.

David certainly didn't envy these men and women. They had a helluva job ahead of them, sifting through hundreds of interviews and dozens of dead-end trails, looking for a traitor in their midst and coming up against a slew of agents who wouldn't take kindly to having their loyalty called into question.

It was going to be a very long day for all of them.

* * *

Scott O'Donnell stepped out of the mobile command center again, giving what must have been his thousandth sigh of frustration over the past hour—the team from Richmond was here, but he had nothing new to tell them, aside from rehashing what he'd given them this morning over the phone. The facts were few and stood as vague as ever: an explosion had occurred on the ninth floor, how or why unknown, number of casualties and injuries to be determined. The scene was not yet cleared, much less approved for stability and safety. The bomb techs from New York were en route and would be here within the next forty-five minutes.

So much had happened, and so little had been answered.

Of course, he also had to consider his next move—how to separate and order people into groups, to make interviewing easier. He had at least a hundred agents here who could do the job well and efficiently, but since everyone at Quantico was considered a potential suspect, they were all off the board—even if they were cleared, Scott wasn't sure that he should let coworkers interview one another. Too much personal history, too great of a chance of creating bad blood between someone under suspicion and someone just doing their job during an interview. Scott had to plan for the world of _after_, when they all had to go back to living and working together in harmony, when probing personal questions and accusations of their guilt would still carry weight into every mundane task at the office. It was better to let outsiders handle it—the outsiders would ask the questions, have their suspicions, and then go back to wherever they came from. No constant contact, no nursing grudges or being constantly reminded of the person who tore apart your private life. It was for the best.

In addition to the lead team sent in by Richmond, O'Donnell had requested another twenty-five agents from the D.C. Field Office to help cover the interviews—but even with thirty people running interviews, the sad fact was that it would still take several days.

And where would these interviews take place? The main building was out of the question, and bussing in a huge convoy of agents back to D.C. would definitely raise eyebrows and pique the curiosity of a few journalists (he was trying so hard to keep this under wraps, though in his heart, he knew it to be a futile task). Luckily, the FBI Academy at Quantico had dozens of classrooms and outer buildings that could be utilized, though that meant cancelling training and classes—not an ideal situation, but probably the best option on the table.

The door to the mobile commander center opened again, and Jack Dawson, the head of the Richmond team, stepped out with a light sigh of his own. "Let's get this party started, shall we?"

* * *

Aaron Hotchner was busy scanning the crowd, looking for any suspicious behavior that might identify an UNSUB—someone too interested in the proceedings, someone being too quiet or withdrawn (all actions open to interpretation, as all people responded differently to stress and tragedy, but still, it was a start). He felt Derek Morgan tense up beside him, suddenly going on-alert. He turned to see the object of his colleague's attentiveness—Scott O'Donnell, trailed by a group of people who could only be the agents from Richmond.

He focused his profiler's eye on them, gathering as much information as he could.

The man walking beside O'Donnell was obviously the leader—he moved with easy assurance, with the full faith that his team was following close behind. He had dark brows and light eyes, with hair that was dark on top and completely grey on the sides, though he couldn't be much older than Hotch. His features were rounded, from the shape of his nose to the curve of his jaw, which kept the angle of his cheekbones and the sharp blue of his eyes from being too severe. His shoulders weren't broad, yet he moved as if they were, a physical projection that made him seem larger and more in-control.

Behind him came a younger woman who looked like a glamorized version of a librarian—sleek blonde hair, big black rimmed glasses perched atop a dainty nose, a cupid's mouth doused in red lipstick which only accented her grey-green eyes. She wore a skirt and heels, which seemed entirely impractical for field work, yet she traversed the uneven ground with little difficulty, moving swiftly and gracefully.

Beside her was another man, several years older than the leader, with grey hair cropped short to reduce the effect of his receding hairline. He was tall, with broad shoulders and long limbs, and his features were distinctly Roman, with a hawkish nose and a square jaw, dark eyes and thin, unsmiling lips. He looked weary, yet his body language was open, approachable, even friendly.

A few steps behind was the final member of the team, an older woman with dark hair and eyes that were oddly sparrow-like, big and brown and round. Her face was dominated by a long, pointed nose, which rested over a thin mouth that was currently quirked into a half-smirk, the corners of her eyes crinkling like she'd just heard some great secret. She was tall, with gangly limbs that made her pace stand out next to the smooth-rolling gait of her blonde coworker (Hotch noticed the limp, and briefly wondered if she'd been injured in the line of duty—by her walk, he could tell that it was an old injury).

Together, all four moved in an easy sync, in a way that spoke a level of comfort around one another—they'd been together for a very long time, and over the years, they'd obviously formed into a well-working machine.

Scott finally reached the barricade, motioning for the BAU to join him as he turned back to the newcomers. "These folks will be handling the investigation. Agent Hotchner, Agent Morgan, Agent Callahan—let me introduce you to the Flying J's."

The leader gave a good-natured smile at the moniker, while the older woman in the back stifled a laugh.

"Jack Dawson," the leader took a moment to shake everyone's hand. "And yes, I assure you, I've heard every Titanic-based joke you could ever imagine, and trust me, they're not nearly as clever as people think."

Kate merely grinned in response—she couldn't deny that her mind had instantly flashed back to Leonardo Dicaprio's character from _Titanic_, who bore the same name.

Jack motioned over his shoulder to his team, "This is SSA Jessalyn Keller—"

The blonde gave a light wave of her fingers in response.

"SSA Jonas Shostakovich—"

The older man gave a nod, offering a slight smile.

"And SSA Judith Eden."

The brunette woman had moved to stand beside the blonde, giving a quick wink (and Derek Morgan knew then and there she'd be trouble).

"Jack, Jessalyn, Jonas, and Judith," Kate suddenly got it. "The Flying J's."

"You can't make this shit up," Jack informed her drolly. The others grinned in agreement. Agent Dawson resumed a more serious air, "We're going to start moving people over to the Academy classrooms to begin interviews, as soon as the rest of our reinforcements from D.C. arrive. But for now, we'd like to get y'all cleared so that we can have a little help on this profile—we do alright on our own, but it'd be nice having the original head-shrinkers in our corner."

_Head-shrinkers_. Hotch surmised that Dawson was either former military or police, based on his use of that term. However, Dawson hadn't seemed the least bit combative or confrontational, implying that he was merely trying to lighten the mood of a very dark situation. He was a respectful person—he'd merely introduced himself by name, but he'd taken the time to add the _SSA_ before each of his colleagues'. He respected them, respected their titles and therefore respected the work they'd put in to earn those titles.

Derek Morgan nodded in agreement, tilting his head towards the barricade on the opposite end of the front lawn, "We've got one more agent on the other side—David Rossi. And two more of our team are at the hospital now with injuries from the incident."

"Three," Kate corrected quietly. "Spencer went with JJ, remember?"

Dawson gave a slight shrug, "We'll interview whoever's here, then send a couple of agents to interview the ones who aren't here."

He turned and headed back to the mobile command center, his team right behind him. The BAU followed as well, taking a moment to share quick looks of here-we-go.

Rossi soon joined them, and another round of introductions was made before everyone went into the mobile command center.

"Alright, boss," Judith Eden set her hands on her hips, turning to Dawson. "How we gonna do this?"

Morgan was surprised at her accent, "You're British?"

"English, actually," she smiled warmly. "And American, too, by birth—though I grew up in West Sussex."

"Dual citizenship," Rossi gave a small nod. "That explains why you're in the FBI."

"It explains nothing at all, really," she countered, still open and friendly—her eyes even twinkled mischievously, as if she were on the inside of some grand joke. "But that's another story for another time."

"We're gonna do this quick and dirty," Jack Dawson redirected the conversation. "We'll pair off, do one-on-one interviews, get the basics—we won't be able to verify anything at this time, so for now, it's just about getting the stories to see if they check out later."

Hotch nodded in understanding.

"Alright—Shostakovich, you'll take SSA Callahan's statement. Eden, you're with SSA Rossi, and Keller, you get SSA Morgan. SSA Hotchner, you're with me." Dawson pulled a small notepad from his back pocket and motioned to the door once more.

Hotch followed him, eager to have this over and done with as soon as possible. Dawson sensed this; he kept his questions short and direct, matching Hotchner's general speaking style in a way that was slightly unsettling but also highly effective—Aaron realized that Dawson was mimicking his vocal patterns to make him feel more at-ease, a way of showing solidarity. Eden had chosen to interview Rossi outside the van as well; they were walking up and down a small patch of the drive, near the SUVs. From their body language, he could see they were getting along well—their posture was relaxed, he smiled and she nodded in understanding, and they even laughed once or twice.

No wonder O'Donnell had called this team in. They were good. Rossi wasn't always the most pleasant or endearing person to the people he knew, much less to complete strangers who were tasked with determining his guilt or innocence.

Dawson jotted down the basic details that SSA Hotchner had given him—what time he'd come into work this morning, what he'd heard, what he'd seen. It was bare bones stuff, and if this had been any other case, it would have been shoddy work. But the truth was, until they had more information, the rest wasn't quite necessary yet—after all, the BAU had been on the sixth floor, and the blast had occurred on the ninth. Until they knew what kind of explosive they were dealing with or how it had been detonated, there really was no reason to include any of the team into the suspect pool (yet).

Soon Eden was approaching again, David Rossi close behind her.

"All squared away here," she offered another helpful smile, though her left brow quirked into that tell-tale downward mark that silently said _I don't even know why you had me ask those pointless questions in the first place, Jackie boy._

He opened the door to the mobile command center again, and waited for everyone else to climb inside.

Keller and Shostakovich were already seated, with the other two BAU agents standing, waiting for the next move. Scott O'Donnell was there as well, talking to the Flying J's analyst, whom they'd brought with them from Richmond.

"I completely forgot to introduce our technical analyst," Jack motioned to the petite redhead, who turned to him in response. "This is Sura Roza."

With a name like Sura Roza, one would expect someone of exotic origin. That couldn't be further from the truth—unless, of course, one somehow considered a pale Irish ginger with green eyes as _exotic_. And though her job description was the same as Penelope Garcia's, she was the bubbly blonde's polar opposite—older, quieter, with little makeup and her hair in a tame French twist, dressed in dark slacks and a demure navy button-down.

She took the time to shake everyone's had, offering a polite smile, "I would say it's a pleasure to meet you all, but the circumstances make it a little less enjoyable."

Kate Callahan nodded in understanding, "Same here."

O'Donnell spoke up, "I've just gotten a call from the bomb squad—they just landed and should be here within twenty minutes."

"Where is this bomb squad coming from?" Hotchner asked, confused by the idea that they'd sent for any team that would have to fly to get here, especially when they were within decent driving distance of three other field offices.

"New York."

Rossi immediately turned to his unit chief. "New York, that's where Roe and Jeff are."

"Who?" Derek Morgan looked confused.

"Rowena Lewis and Jeff Masterson. Two bomb analysts for the Joint Terrorism Task Force that went to Nairobi almost two years ago," Hotch supplied quickly.

"I have no idea which agents are coming as part of the team," O'Donnell answered the unspoken question. "I just asked New York to send their best."

"That'll be Jeff and Roe," Rossi was certain.

O'Donnell's two-way radio squawked, "Transport's here."

The Quantico SAC looked around the room, "The buses are ready to move everybody to the Academy buildings for questioning."

"Good," Dawson gave a curt nod of approval. He turned back to Hotch, "Mind mingling with the crowd and using your profiling skills a bit?"

"Anything we can do to help," Hotch replied.

"Tell the rest of the group what you told me," O'Donnell commanded Callahan, who looked surprised at the request.

"Well," her tone was slow, as if she feared overstepping her bounds. "I just said not to focus on the people who protest—look for the people who stay quiet. Our UNSUB is trying to fly below the radar, which means he or she won't do anything to draw attention to themselves. They'll be compliant, almost obsequiously so."

"I agree," Hotch set his hands on his hips. "The UNSUB was able to pull this off with little to no suspicion, or else they would have been caught before the bomb ever went off. They've crafted their life around seeming like the most unlikely person to do such a thing."

"Alright then," Dawson suddenly seemed tired. "Then let's go look for a good obedient agent who's only pretending to be a good obedient agent."

"A needle in a stack of needles if ever I did see one," Eden commented drolly, her thin, wide mouth curling upwards into an amused smirk.

"Then I guess it's a good thing we're excellent needle finders," Jessalyn Keller spoke, her grave tone and quiet Southern accent a complete juxtaposition to Eden's playful West Sussex twang.

Eden gave a silent chuckle at the remark. Derek Morgan wondered if he'd ever seen someone so relaxed and jovial in such a critical situation—he understood that everyone reacted differently, but her apparent lack of concern seemed out of place.

Obviously, he wasn't the only one who noticed—Jonas Shostakovich simply stepped closer to his team mate, placing a light hand on her back to get her attention. When she glanced over her shoulder at him, he gave her a quiet, cryptic look. She seemed to understand, because she merely dropped her smile and headed for the door.

"Alright, boys and girls," Dawson motioned to the now-open door. "Let's go find our needle."

* * *

"_A hero is somebody who voluntarily walks into the unknown."_

_~Tom Hanks._

* * *

_***Author's Note: Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the wonderful reviews, adds, favorites, etc. Truly.  
And for "mental casting" notes, in order of appearance: think Titus Welliver for Jack Dawson, Kathleen Roberston for Jessalyn Keller, Colm Feore for Jonas Shostakovich, and Haydn Gwynne for Judith Eden.***_


	10. In This Valley of Dying Stars

**In This Valley of Dying Stars**

"_The eyes are not here__  
__There are no eyes here__  
__In this valley of dying stars__  
__In this hollow valley__  
__This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms."_

_~T.S. Eliot._

* * *

"I'm going to walk over, if you don't mind," Judith Eden informed her unit chief as everyone headed to the SUVs. "Been ages since I've been at the Academy, but I'm pretty sure I can find the right building."

"I'll go with you," Jonas Shostakovich offered, stepping closer to her again.

Dawson merely waved them on, turning back to the BAU, "Anyone else fancy a walk?"

Rossi couldn't resist the chance to slip up next to Morgan and quietly intone, "Some of us have already had a nice little run this morning."

Kate overheard the remark, and apparently Hotch had too—because when she glanced over at her unit chief, she saw him fighting back a smile (_incorrigible, the whole lot of them_).

Shades already in place, Derek Morgan's face was a mask of seriousness. Still, Rossi sensed that he was smiling on the inside.

There were no other takers on the offer, so everyone else loaded up into the big black Suburbans.

With a light wave, Judith and Jonas started their trek.

Jonas was silent for quite some time—it wasn't until they'd rounded the corner of the main building before he gently spoke, "You've got to be careful about what you say, Jude."

"Spare me the lecture. I'm well-aware of my own impropriety," her tone wasn't cutting, but rather tired (they'd had this conversation before, countless times). Jonas' natural instinct was to be serious; hers was not.

"You're already treading a fine line in enough areas of impropriety, don't you think?" His tone was cautious, neutral, but the implication (and its corresponding accusation) still came through loud and clear.

Judith stopped for a moment, staring at him with a sudden seriousness. "Don't."

"I'm not going to say anything to—"

"Not another word." Her words were quick, insistent, and armed with teeth. "I am not a martyr, Jonas, and I never will be."

He understood her meaning—_I don't want to take you out, but I'll do it, if I feel like I have to protect myself. Please don't make me_.

"I've never mistaken you for one," he returned simply, giving a slight nod as he continued walking. He intentionally slowed his usual pace, so that Eden could catch up to him (he knew that she hated being coddled, even when it came to her bad leg, but he couldn't stop himself). She did, and he could feel her unhappiness and muted anger rolling off her frame in silent, sullen waves.

"You care too much, Vichie," she stated, her voice softening as she used her personal nickname for him. Somehow, she made it sound like an apology. With a deep breath, she added, "You should spend that nurturing instinct on someone who needs it. Someone who will appreciate the effort."

He didn't tell her that he already was.

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"Jennifer. Jennifer, can you hear me?"

JJ felt a mumble ripple through her brain. Her eyes were closed, but she could feel the bright lights searing against her eyelids. She tried to squint, to open her eyes, but it seemed impossible.

"No, no, that's OK—don't try to open your eyes. It's better if they stay closed." The voice was comforting, but not familiar. "I'm Dr. Candace Mellinger, I'm going to be with you throughout every step of the way, OK? You were in an accident, you've been coming in and out of consciousness while we've run tests on you to see just how bad your injuries are. You hit your head very badly, and you've fractured your skull and your eye socket. You dislocated your shoulder and have a few cracked ribs. Can you understand what I'm saying so far?"

A warm hand slipped into hers. "Squeeze once for no, two for yes."

She squeezed twice. It was a herculean effort, but by god, she did it.

"Good. Now, my main concern right now is repairing your orbital rim—your left eye socket took a heavy blow, and we need to fix that as soon as possible. When you wake up, you're probably still going to feel a little dizzy, but that huge headache you're feeling right now is going to be gone, and you'll be able to open your eyes again. Squeeze my hand if you understand."

Another squeeze. This one was easier.

"Now, your husband and your son are here. They're just out in the waiting room, with your friend Spencer. They'll all be waiting for you when you wake up, OK? We're gonna get you to the other side of this, where you belong—with your family."

JJ gave a long, grateful squeeze. Dr. Mellinger seemed to understand.

"It's OK. This is my job, OK, honey? Now your job is to be strong for just a little bit longer and hold on. You're doing beautifully, Jennifer. Now Dr. Coley is going to put the anesthesia mask over your mouth."

JJ felt the light pressure of the mask, the gentle brush of the anesthesia slowly seeping out.

"Take a deep breath, Jennifer. Good, good…now another. Just keep breathing, and think about that boy of yours…."

_Henry_. As if she'd thought of anything else all day. This time, instead of a grinning, playful face, she simply felt the familiar pressure of a certain little blond head against her collarbone, the weight of his small frame pressed against hers as they curled up for a story or a lullaby.

Strangely, it was her mother's voice she heard, quietly chanting.

_Go to sleep you little baby…go to sleep you little babe…go to sleep you little baby…go to sleep you little babe._

And then stars. She saw so many beautiful stars.

* * *

"And did you hit your head, at any point during this event?"

Penelope frowned slightly as she considered the question. "Um…I don't think—well, I guess when I rolled down the stairs I probably did bump it, but not like—I don't think I have a concussion, if that's what you're asking."

The ER nurse smiled, "How about you let me be the judge of that?"

He reached forward, gloved hands gently probing her skull for tell-tale bumps. Then he took out a penlight and checked her pupils, "OK, I'm going to agree with you, for now. But if you start feeling nauseous or dizzy, you let me know ASAP."

"I felt nauseous after I twisted my ankle," she admitted.

He glanced down at her ankle, which now looked as if she'd slipped a softball under her skin. "Then it's not just a sprain—that kind of reaction usually means you've broken something."

She gave a moan of disapproval. "I'm totally going to burn those shoes!"

He laughed at the declaration—by now, Penelope had already recounted her great escape, so he was well aware that the problem was less about her footwear and more about the fact that she'd been on the same floor as a bomb.

He glanced over at the heels in question, "What size are those? I'm asking for a friend, of course."

There was definitely a hint of wink-wink-nudge-nudge in his tone, and Penelope's eyes lit up in delight. Relieved by her response, he confessed, "I do a show two weekends a month at this little place called Beautique—"

"I've been to that show!" Penelope sat straight up, clapping her hands in excitement. "What's your name—wait, wait, no, don't tell me, I bet I can guess."

She took a moment to size him up, taking in his skin tone and his facial bone structure. "Um…Miss La-La-Lavender?"

"At your service," he flourished his hands with a grin. Normally he didn't talk about his personal life at work, but this bubbly little light brought it out of him so easily. The fact that she was still so chipper after all she'd survived in the past three hours made her even more impressive. This girl was definitely a magna cum laude graduate of the school of hard knocks, and yet she still had that open, warm, compassionate face that instantly let people know that she was someone who could be trusted and accepted. She'd fought to keep that part of herself, despite all the events she'd survived that would callous a less-determined individual. He respected that, the way a fellow soldier would respect a purple heart recipient.

"You can totally have the pumps," she motioned over to the chair by her bed, which held the bright orange items in question. "If they fit you, they're yours. I was just going to ceremoniously burn them in retaliation, but with your dance skills, you'll give them more of a work-out than I ever could."

He laughed at this, taking a moment to pick up one of the heels and inspect it. "We'll see. For right now, let's get you all patched up, OK? I'll put you on the list for x-ray—I'm afraid we're jam-packed, due to this whole fiasco, so it might be awhile."

"That's OK. I understand."

With a conspiratorial whisper, he leaned forward, "I'll try and sneak you up higher on the list—VIP service for a supporter of the fine arts."

She grinned in response. With a wink of his own, he disappeared.

He returned in a few minutes with a metal tray of supplies. He quickly cut away the remaining shreds of her nylons, taking the time to delicately pick away the pieces of fabric and debris embedded into the cuts on her knees. After dousing them in antiseptic (and apologizing profusely for the sting), he had her knees bandaged and wrapped and her hands treated as well. He gave her some pills for the pain and told her that he'd return to take her to x-ray soon.

Once she was alone again, Penelope settled back into her pillows with a light sigh. She thanked the Universe for sending a kindred spirit her way, someone who not only healed her physical wounds but happily reminded her that there were wonderful people in the world.

She made a mental note to call Emily soon—she needed to tell her friend that she'd met Miss La-La-Lavender. The two women had been to the drag show at Beautique a few times during Emily's last stint with the BAU, and they'd always loved it. Emily would be playfully envious at the thought of Penelope befriending one of their favorite performers. She could actually hear her friend's response in her head now—_damn you, Garcia, you always have all the luck_.

It was true. Penelope Garcia was a very lucky girl (not that Emily Prentiss was lacking in that department, either—she probably had a greater batting average when it came to escaping death and disaster than anyone else in the BAU). By all accounts, today should have ended on a much worse note than it did.

_Except the day's not over yet_, a quiet little voice in her mind spoke.

_Gee, thanks, subconscious_, she rolled her eyes. Despite her snark, her heart immediately sprang back to Quantico, into the hands of a tall, dark, and handsome man—the same hands that had literally picked her up and carried her to safety.

She felt a familiar flush in her chest at the memory. She hadn't been lying in the least when she'd told him that she knew he'd come for her—because he would, he always did, just as he always had. They were two sides of the same coin, yin and yang, destined to always be side-by-side. Soulmates, in a way.

She turned her head at that thought—she'd acknowledged that fact a long time ago, and she'd also filed it away, knowing it was something that would never be pursued. And for the most part, she was quite happy with the balance they'd found, the odd we-love-each-other-but-we'll-never-love-each-other pact that they'd silently made and agreed upon, through years of bright-eyed glances and playful retorts and tear-choked confessions of their importance in each other's lives. But right now, she felt broken open and vulnerable and the pills were making her a little loopy and she felt a small prick of loss and nostalgia for something she'd never had in the first place.

For now, she'd let herself wallow in the feeling. But when her darling daring hero came to check on her later that evening, she'd have all those hopelessly messy emotions locked away where they belonged.

* * *

_**FBI Airstrip. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Here ya go," Mac unceremoniously handed Rowena a paper cup of steaming hot liquid. They'd just tossed the last of their equipment into the back of the black Suburban, which was to be theirs for the duration of the case.

Rowena looked around the tarmac slowly, her brows furrowing in confusion, "How…where…"

"I phoned ahead while you were asleep on the plane—told the boys at Quantico to meet us on the runway with some peppermint tea," the older woman flashed a sharp smile. "You can imagine how well that request went over, but the end justifies the means, and here we are."

Rowena took a tentative sip, trying not to let the hot tea scald her tongue. "This is actually pretty good."

"Do you dare doubt the Marines' ability to make a good cup of peppermint tea?" Mac arched her brow mockingly, the smirk evident upon her lips.

Jeff turned to look at Rowena, as if seriously awaiting her answer—his facial expression silently reminded her that he, too, was a former military man.

She merely grinned.

"C'mon," Macaraeg jerked her chin towards the front of the SUV. The agents and Marines from Quantico returned to their own vehicles, forming a convoy that wound its way back to the buildings that made up the little nation of the FBI at Quantico.

They stopped in front of the mobile command center, Macaraeg holding up the vehicle keys for the other two to see, before placing them under the driver's side visor—if either of them needed to go somewhere, now they knew where to find the keys.

A man whose expression of worry marked him as the Quantico SAC was waiting for them. He offered his hand in greeting, "Scott O'Donnell."

"Adelaide Macaraeg. And this is Rowena Lewis and Jeff Masterson."

"Jesus," O'Donnell's eyes went round in wonderment. "David Rossi hit the nail on the head."

"David Rossi?" Jeff's heart hit a hopeful note—if O'Donnell was mentioning Rossi, it must mean that he was still alive and already on the case.

"Yeah. When he found out we were bringing in a team from New York, he guessed it'd be you two. Said you were the best."

Rowena's long fingers lightly pinched Jeff's side, _Looks like the man crush is mutual_.

He ignored her completely.

"What's the status of search and rescue?" Mac set her hands on her hips, squinting slightly as she looked up at the main building.

"Slow and steady," O'Donnell admitted, mimicking her stance, his eyes instinctively moving to the ninth floor. "Got two SAR teams working on the explosion site right now—doesn't look good, by the reports, but they should be done within the half-hour."

"God almighty," Mac breathed—quick mental math determined that it had already been three hours since the event had actually taken place. Three hours might seem like a short work day, but when you were being pushed by adrenaline and facing life-and-death situations which required acts of both mental and physical strength, it became as draining as a marathon. Then, returning to the task at hand, she looked back at O'Donnell, "Do you have some schematics we can take a look at, while we wait? It'd be nice to know the lay of the land before we get there."

O'Donnell nodded, motioning for them to follow him into the mobile command center van.

Inside were three analysts—two from the D.C. Field Office, plus Sura Roza, the analyst for the Flying J's. Another round of greetings and introductions took place, then one of the D.C. analysts—Federer by name—found the information that Mac needed, pulling it up on two of the large screens that dominated the top half of the van's wall.

O'Donnell grabbed a laser pointer, using the red dot to illustrate, "Based on what the SAR teams are telling me, the main blast site is here, but there's damage within about a fifty to seventy foot range."

"Not a particularly big area for a boom," Mac commented, adding with a light quirk of her brow, "Though, I suppose in close quarters like this, it's big enough."

Jeff Masterson nodded in agreement, frowning slightly as his mind tried to gauge how much space was within that radius—the main corridor, some elevator banks, a few offices. "How much structural damage we talking about, here?"

O'Donnell gave a heavy sigh at this question, "The main hallway's walls are knocked out for about fifteen to twenty feet—these two offices right off the corridor sustained heavy hits. With the loss of support from those main walls, the ceiling is compromised—which in turn affected the elevators."

"Oh, God," Mac sensed where this was going, and the blood drained from her face at the thought.

"We lost one of the elevators—there were three people still inside. One died at the scene, the other two were rushed to the hospital in critical condition."

Jeff's hand automatically went to the Saint Michael's shield he kept around his neck (a battered, scratched thing that his grandmother had given to him during basic training, he'd worn it for decades now) as his mind quietly shot out a prayer for the two still living and the loved ones surrounding all three people. Roe noticed the action and felt a pang of sympathy.

"But are the SAR teams having any trouble getting through the area?" Mac asked, trying to keep her focus on the technical details rather than the emotional toll. She had to keep her head clear and her nerves steady—a feat which didn't allow for sympathy or empathy or any of the normal human emotions associated with such an event. She'd mourn the losses when her work was done. But for now, her task was far from over.

"So far, not really," O'Donnell shook his head in slight surprise. "Their biggest issue is getting through the rubble—they're trying to keep as much of the scene in-tact as possible for you guys."

"Tell 'em not to worry about that," Mac assured him, her tone becoming softer. "Their job is to save the wounded; it's our job to pick up the pieces of whatever's left over. We'll manage with whatever kind of scene they leave—and I think I can speak for all of us when I say we'd prefer a messy scene and a clear conscience in knowing we didn't impede anyone from being rescued in a quick manner."

Rowena and Jeff gave grave nods of agreement. O'Donnell gave a grateful smile, giving a curt nod of his own as he promised, "I'll be sure to let them know."

Macaraeg gave another small smile, this time the wide-open sympathy of her amber eyes lessening the general sharpness of her mouth.

Once O'Donnell left the van, Macaraeg turned back to her team, "Ok. So high-impact, low radius. What are we looking at, here?"

"Something homemade," Jeff stated the obvious first. "Given the impact radius, I'd say it was relatively small."

Rowena hummed in agreement as she tried to recall the information they'd reviewed on the plane ride, before she'd drifted into uneasy sleep, "There were reports of fire—and obviously there was enough smoke to set off the alarms. The SAR teams mentioned burn damage at what is most likely ground zero."

"So deflagration to detonation transition? Or is the impact so powerful that things catch fire afterwards?" Mac wondered aloud, glancing back up at the schematic, as if it held some clue.

"We need to get witness statements from those who were at ground zero," Jeff said quietly.

"My thoughts exactly," Mac informed him. She glanced over at Federer, the technical analyst from D.C. "Do you have footage from the ninth floor?"

He gave an apologetic shake of his head, "Everything would have been stored on Quantico's system—it's all down, since they cut off the emergency generators. Something to do with the elevator, before it went down. There's no power in the main building at all."

"But…surely there's a backup somewhere. An off-site server or a cloud or something like that," Mac's tone implied that she didn't have a clear understanding of exactly how such things worked.

Federer's expression wasn't hopeful. "For case files and other data like that, yeah. But security feed footage from ten seconds before an explosion? I don't think so. Besides, the blast would have taken out most of the cameras within range, or at least the power supply they'd need to function. I'm afraid you're looking at a dead end."

"Shit," Mac set her hands on her hips again, looking away in frustration. Her initial gut instinct of this not being an open-and-shut case only intensified. She checked her watch, "Well, we've got at least thirty minutes to kill—might as well hit the hospital and see if we can talk to some of the witnesses."

Lewis and Masterson were out the door within seconds. Mac suddenly turned back to Federer, "Oh, which hospital?"

"There are two." Again he looked regretful, and Adelaide Macaraeg wondered if he were incapable of any other facial expression. "The number of injuries was too big to flood just one hospital, so they were split into two, depending on the type of injury."

"Where are the ones who were at ground zero going?"

* * *

_**Fairfaix Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"Wait," Henry held up his hands as if to ward off his godfather's assistance. "I got it—just, just wait."

His childish excitement created that familiar bubbling feeling in Spencer's chest—that strange, almost-psychotic sense of happiness that made him want to laugh all the time, at everything Henry did and said, this brilliant, shining kid.

They were, of course, playing card tricks. Henry was old enough to want to learn how to do them, but he wasn't quite at the level of actually performing them—though, to his credit, he did try.

"OK," Henry gave a definite nod, his blond hair spilling back into his face. He grabbed a face-down card and held it up triumphantly, his voice becoming serious, "Is this your card, sir?"

It was not. Spencer didn't hesitate to lie, "Oh my gosh, it is!"

He feigned shock and awe, which only increased Henry's giggles of delight. Will was smiling, too, his brow arching in incredulity (_liar, liar, Dr. Reid_). However, when he was subjected to the same trick, he gave the same performance as Spencer had.

Reid stole a glance at the clock on the wall—they were just past the first hour of JJ's surgery, and based on Dr. Mellinger's pre-op discussion, they were probably less than halfway through. Dr. Mellinger had informed them that the fracture on JJ's skull didn't need surgical repair, and for now, they were going to try and keep the swelling in her brain down through medicine rather than surgery (_subdural hematoma_, she had said, _but not acute_—Spencer knew that wasn't the best, but it wasn't the worst, either). If the fluid continued to build up in her brain, surgical measures would have to be taken, but for now Dr. Mellinger wanted to spare JJ from as much physical trauma as possible—and having two surgeries at once was definitely traumatic, especially on the heels of a forty-foot drop. Her ribs would heal on their own, and her dislocated shoulder should already be good as new. That was something, he guessed.

"Hey, guys, I'll be right back," Spencer rose to his feet. Suddenly he needed to move, to wander the halls aimlessly and let his mind unravel, without feeling as if he constantly had to wear a mask of calm optimism for Henry.

Will seemed to understand, because there was a sympathetic light is his sleepy eyes as he gave a small nod. Henry first extracted a promise that Uncle Spence would return soon before allowing him to escape.

To add to the overwhelming sense of helplessness, Spencer didn't have any way to contact the rest of the team—his phone was missing and he'd tried calling Hotch from a phone at the hospital, but apparently they hadn't gotten their cellphones back yet, because Hotch never answered. There was no way to know what had happened to Morgan and Garcia, no way to tell them that JJ was in surgery, no way to know if they were even still alive. There were too many uncertain variables to make this a comfortable situation in any way whatsoever.

He moved quickly through the halls, though he had no clue where he was going. The pad of his shoes on the waxed floor repeated the constant running mantra of his mind's worry: _J-J, J-J, J-J_…

He shook his head, as if trying to clear away the sound. He glanced down at his shoes, which hadn't stopped their onward march.

He was so distracted by his own feet that he rounded the corner and smacked right into someone.

"Oh!" The voice was surprised and feminine and oddly familiar.

He looked up into the beaming face of Rowena Lewis.

"Dr. Reid!" She cried out joyously, pulling him back into her with a hug. He was still recovering from the shock of it all—the initial impact, the fact that it was Agent Lewis, the realization that she was hugging him. She suddenly remembered that she was holding on to the guy who didn't even like shaking hands, and she stepped back, giving a sheepish smile of apology.

"What are you doing here?" He cringed at his own bluntness.

She seemed completely unfazed, "We're—we've been called in as the evidence recovery team. But I'm—I'm so damn glad you're OK."

Jeff Masterson was, as usual, right behind her, politely waiting for them to settle down a bit before nodding at Spencer in greeting, "Dr. Reid, I'll second Roe's statement and say it is good to see you all in one piece."

"Do Rossi and Hotch know you're here?" Reid asked—those were the only other two who'd been on the Nairobi case, when they'd met Lewis and Masterson.

"Not yet," Rowena replied, taking a moment to glance back at Jeff. "Well, at least not officially—O'Donnell said that Rossi had guessed that we'd be the ones coming in, but we haven't seen either of them yet."

Reid felt a small wave of disappointment at her words—his heart had momentarily soared at the thought that they might have seen the rest of his team and could give him a status report.

"Right now, we're trying to interview some of the agents who witnessed the actual explosion," Rowena explained, motioning around the hospital in general. Then, with an expression that bordered between sympathy and frustration, she added, "Though it's been a challenge, trying to find people who were that close and who aren't in surgery or under the influence of some heavy drugs."

Jeff gave a small hum of agreement, shaking his head slightly in compassion. They'd been quietly peeking into rooms, oftentimes saddened by the sights awaiting them—it reminded him too much of his army days, too much of death and destruction and all the ways a human could so calculatingly harm another human. The bomb squad didn't often get calls on things that had already exploded—at least not on this level—and they certainly didn't spend time walking among the wounded.

There was a sharp whistle down the hall, which caused all three agents to turn around—it was Adelaide Macaraeg, leaning out of a hospital room doorway.

"We've got something," she informed them, motioning for them to join her.

"C'mon," Rowena lightly tugged at Spencer's sleeve, jerking her chin in the direction of the room. She and Jeff walked ahead, and Spencer couldn't help but be reminded of how much she favored Emily Prentiss—the long dark hair (though hers was in loose, almost chaotic waves), the broad shoulders and powerful walk, even the little tics that betrayed her nervousness, like the way she rubbed the pads of her thumb and middle finger together when she walked.

Macaraeg had stepped into the hallway, taking a moment to study the young stranger who was following her agents, "And who is this?"

"Dr. Spencer Reid, Behavioral Analysis Unit," he gave a slight tip of his head in greeting, though he didn't offer his hand. Normally he wouldn't give his unit title, but he felt the need to clarify, since he was in a hospital.

"SSA Macaraeg," she spoke slowly, uncertainty still etched in her face. She was sizing him up, and he saw the same unspoken questions in her eyes that he'd seen in dozens of others.

However, she was polite enough not to voice her doubts on his abilities out loud, so he had to give her credit for that, at least.

"Dr. Reid worked with us in Nairobi," Jeff explained quietly. "He's a good profiler; maybe he can help us out a little."

She gave a slight nod, though her uncertainty never faded. Instead, she simply got back to the matter at hand, "This woman—Mary Weiss—she was on the ninth floor when it happened, and she's in relatively good shape, compared to some of the others."

"How?" Jeff couldn't help but ask.

Mac gave a wry smirk, "She was in an office a few doors down—her contact lens fell out, and she was under her desk trying to find it. The desk had a heavy oak front, which shielded her from the blast, and the top saved her from falling bookcases and such. Funny how life works out sometimes, innit?"

"Funny indeed," Jeff's voice was filled with awe.

Spencer felt that they both misused the word _funny_.

Mac entered the room again, her demeanor shifting completely as she approached Mary Weiss' bedside.

"Hey, Mary, I'm back," her voice was gentle, almost lulling. "I've got a few agents here—I want you to tell them what you told me."

Mary nodded, blinking quickly to hold back tears as she remembered, "I, uh…I was in my office. My contact popped out—I stayed up way too late last night watching Netflix, it's so stupid—but anyways, I got on the floor to look for it. Then, all of the sudden, the explosion happened. And everything went crazy."

"I understand this is hard for you," Macaraeg reached forward to place a reassuring hand over Mary's shaking one. "But I need you to think very carefully about what you saw when you tried to get out."

Mary squinted, as if trying to envision it, "I don't…I don't know. It's very—everything happened so fast."

"May I make a suggestion?" Spencer Reid stepped forward, his voice halting in uncertainty as he looked to Macaraeg. Her expression remained unchanged, but she didn't stop him, so he continued. "Ms. Weiss, do you know what a cognitive interview is?"

"I've seen one on TV—on some cop show, I think."

Spencer didn't comment that her TV show probably got it all wrong. "OK, what we're going to do is very simple. I'm going to ask you a series of questions, and you just answer them as accurately as you can. Take your time. Focus only on the moment that I ask about, not what will happen next. Now, I need you to close your eyes."

She did as she was told. Spencer continued, "What time did you get to work this morning?"

"Ah…seven thirty. Like always."

"Look at the numbers on the keypad when you swiped your access card. What are the numbers?"

"Seven…thirty-two." She didn't open her eyes, but her eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Good. Did you take the elevator?"

"Yes."

"And what did you do when you got to your office?"

"I…set my bag in the chair by the door, hung my coat on the hook behind the door. I checked my desk—everything looked like it was in order—and then went to get a cup of coffee before coming back."

"The explosion happened around eight. Did you stay in your office the whole time?"

"Yes…no, wait—no. I went down the hall to make copies, but that's it."

"What time was that?"

Mary frowned slightly, brow furrowing as she tried to remember. "I'm not sure."

"You passed probably half a dozen clocks on your trip to and from the copy machine. Just take your time and think about it. Did you check you cellphone, anything like that?"

"I did—I had a text from my sister when I got back to my desk."

"Look at the text. What does the time stamp say?"

"Seven fifty-seven."

"Good. Just stay there, Mary. Focus only on what's happening right now. You mentioned you stayed up late watching Netflix. So you were tired?"

"Yes. And my contacts were bugging me because I hadn't had enough sleep."

"So you're rubbing your eyes, and it's getting worse."

"Yeah."

"Now I need you to focus on what your other senses are telling you. Is your office cold?"

"Not really—well, yes, it's always cold in the morning, but I hardly notice it now."

"Do you have a window?"

"No. I'm on the inside of the hallway."

"Are you comfortable? Is your chair comfortable?"

"I'm sitting on the edge of my seat, so no, it's not comfortable. But I don't move because I'm still messing with my contacts."

"And what do you hear?"

"Um…I don't know."

"You do know, Mary. You just hear these sounds every day, so you've taught yourself to tune them out. Do you hear the copy machine?"

"No."

"What about the elevators?"

"Ah…yes. I hear them. And I hear—paper. Like someone's flipping through a book or a file across the hall."

"What else do you hear? Does anyone have a radio on?"

"Uh…no. Terrence hasn't gotten there yet, or it'd be on this awful oldies station."

"What do you hear in the hallway?"

"Footsteps. People walking by—but only one every few minutes. And…Schuyler, the boy who delivers the mail. He's always super-chipper, you can hear him from a mile away. He's saying good morning to someone, which is odd…"

"Why is it odd?"

"He usually doesn't come by that early."

"OK. You hear Schuyler. What are you doing at this moment?"

"Um, my contact pops out, so I'm looking at my pants, trying to see if it fell into my lap. Then I slowly push away my chair and get down on my knees."

"You're under your desk. Can you still hear things?"

"Not as clearly, but yeah, I can still hear a few things."

"What else do you hear?"

"Schuyler's still talking. I hear someone running by, I guess they're late or there was an emergency call or something—and then there's this thud…well, not a thud, really, but some noise that's kinda loud, but not sharp. Not like something's falling or being dropped, either. It's like…."

"Like someone bumping into something?" Spencer interjected helpfully.

"Yeah," her face lit up in recognition. "Yeah, like someone bumped into something. Something heavy, but with metal, because I heard the metal rattling—almost like a shopping cart. The mail cart—it had to be Schuyler's mail cart."

"What happens after the bump?"

"A big boom. And the floor shakes. There's a loud crack above my head—it's the bookshelf, falling on top of the desk. People…people are screaming." Her breathing hitched as she pressed her eyes tighter shut, as if trying to block out the sounds. "There's moaning and—"

"It's OK, Mary, just breathe," Macaraeg stepped next to Spencer again, placing a gentle hand on Mary's shoulder.

Spencer quickly changed Mary's focus, "How does the carpet feel beneath your fingertips?"

"Um…gritty. And rough, like it usually does." Mary pushed forward bravely, and inwardly Rowena gave a little cheer for this woman and her obvious fighting spirit.

"How do you feel? Does your head hurt? Are you injured?"

"I'm OK. The floor shook, which kinda scuffed up my knees and my hands, and my legs got hit by some books falling off the shelf, but for now, I'm OK."

"What do you do next?"

"I crawl out from under the desk. I look around—it's crazy."

"How do you get to the door?"

"I—the bookshelf is blocking me in, so I have to crawl over my desk."

"What do you see when you get to the hall?"

"There's…just piles of stuff everywhere—plaster, small pieces of metal. And bodies. I see someone's hand—but I don't want to see the rest."

"Don't look at the bodies, look at the stuff in the hall."

"OK…ah, there's wires hanging from the ceiling…and smoke…."

"Smoke," Macaraeg interrupted quietly, glancing back at her two agents. "Do you see a fire?"

"No…yes. In the middle, where it's really black, there are some little flames, like papers have caught on fire."

Macaraeg shared another look with Jeff and Rowena, filled with portent. Reid understood that this detail must mean something important to them. He continued, "What happens next?"

"Ah, I just…I stand there. I don't know where to go. It feels like forever. And then…the sprinklers come on, and it snaps me out of it. I…I take a step back," she suddenly faltered, as if ashamed of her own actions.

"It's OK," Reid assured her. "We all have different reactions to trauma. It doesn't make your reaction wrong."

She pressed her lips into a thin line, trying to hold back more tears. "I kept moving backwards—that's when I stumbled and fell."

She opened her eyes now, looking down at her leg, which was currently wrapped in several layers of bandages and gauze. "Impaled myself on a piece of twisted metal from the ceiling. If I'd gone forward—if I'd gone where people needed me, I would have been fine."

"You have no way of knowing that for sure," Spencer informed her, his voice lined with compassion. "This wasn't some kind of divine justice—it was just an accident. Your body was trying to save you. It's part of our biological hard-wiring. That's not your fault."

Her sad smile disagreed with him.

"Thank you so much," Macaraeg leaned forward, placing her hand on Mary's shoulder again. "You've helped us out tremendously. And listen to the doc here—don't beat yourself up over this. You survived, and that's what counts."

Once they got out of the room, Macaraeg gave a slow, sad shake of her head, her lips pursed into a downward line, "She's never going to forgive herself. She'll put in her resignation within the week."

* * *

"_We all do things we desperately wish we could undo. Those regrets just become part of who we are, along with everything else. To spend time trying to change that, well, it's like chasing clouds."__  
__~Libba Bray__._


	11. As We Wander Through the Valley

**As We Wander Through the Valley**

"_Even when I must walk through the valley of deep darkness, I fear no danger, for you are with me."_

_~Psalms 23:4, personal translation._

* * *

"What makes you think that Mary Weiss will resign?" Jeff asked, his face line with curiosity. It was a question that Spencer Reid had wanted to ask as well (in truth, he felt the same, but he wanted to know how Macaraeg had reached such a conclusion).

"She's already grappling with guilt—wait until she sees the official list of casualties. It'll be full of people she knows—people she's worked alongside for years. It'll become even more real for her, and she'll beat herself up, wondering which of those friends and coworkers she could have saved, if she'd gone forward instead of back." Mac shook her head again. "Some people can't live with stuff like that. Not that I blame her—for any of it, mind you."

"Also," the older woman took a deep breath. "She was so alert and awake just now because she's refusing pain medication. She _wants_ to suffer—as punishment for her actions. She's about to go down a very deep, dark well, psychologically."

There was a beat of heavy silence as everyone imagined the long and hard road to self-forgiveness that lay ahead for Mary Weiss.

Then Macaraeg shifted gears, turning to look at Spencer with new-found appreciation, "You certainly proved yourself, Dr. Reid. Your cognitive interview gave us very important information."

"Just glad to be able to help, somehow," he admitted, slipping his hands back into his pockets. "My friend's in surgery, so I'm basically standing around feeling helpless."

"I'm so sorry," Rowena looked chagrined. "I didn't even think about why you would be here, when the rest of the team's at Quantico."

He gave a forgiving smile. "We're all in a very hectic situation."

With a worried expression of his own, he added, "I just wish I had a way to contact the others—after the explosion, they confiscated everyone's phones. I kept mine, but I lost it somehow."

"Here," Macaraeg pulled her phone from her back pocket. "I have O'Donnell's cell number—he's supposed to be at the Academy with the BAU and the team from Richmond."

"I'm not exactly O'Donnell's favorite person right now," Spencer admitted.

"Ah," Macaraeg simply gave a curt nod. "Then lemme handle this."

She dialed the number. After a few beats, she responded, "O'Donnell, it's Agent Macaraeg. Are you by chance anywhere near Agent Hotchner?"

Spencer watched her expression with bated breath, looking for any clue as to O'Donnell's response.

"Perfect. May I speak to him please?" There was another brief pause, then she smiled triumphantly. "Agent Hotchner, this is Adelaide Macaraeg from the New York branch—we'll be handling the evidence recovery and analysis. I have Spencer Reid here for you."

Spencer took the phone with a grateful smile, before speaking, "Hotch?"

"How's JJ?" Hotch's voice was low, as if he were trying to keep people from overhearing his side of the conversation.

"In surgery. We won't know anything for at least another hour."

"What's her condition?"

"Stable…I guess. Her orbital rim is pretty badly fractured; they're repairing it now. They say she has a skull fracture as well, but they're just keeping an eye on it for now."

Hotch made a low sound of sympathy. "What about Penelope?"

"I—I didn't know she was here." Spencer immediately felt a rise of panic. "Did they say what condition she was in?"

"Morgan found her—he said she was fine, just some bruises and a broken ankle. They wouldn't let him ride with her."

"She's here alone?"

"Unfortunately. We're lucky that they were both taken to Fairfax, so at least you can find her and let her know that we're all alright and we'll be along to see her as soon as possible." Hotch was correct in guessing that Garcia's first concern would be for everyone else.

"I'll find her," Spencer promised.

"Good." Now Hotch's voice became lighter, more amused, "How on earth did you meet up with the New York team?"

"They're here interviewing witnesses. I bumped into Agent Lewis—literally—and Agent Masterson. They're with me now."

Roe gave a slight wave.

"Rowena says hello," Spencer added.

There was definitely a smile in Hotch's voice. "And is Agent Lewis glad to be back with her adorably delicious young doctor?"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, Hotch."

"Playing hard to get, I see."

"I'm going to find Penelope," Spencer changed the subject.

"Nice attempt at deflection," his unit chief commented dryly. However, he took pity on the younger man, "We should have our phones back soon—I'll text you to let you know."

"That won't help—I've lost my phone."

"Do you mean to tell me that after all the complaints and refusals, you ended up losing your phone anyways?" The ironic amusement in Hotch's tone was irritating.

"It must have fallen out of my pocket when I was rushing to JJ," Spencer admitted, mentally taking a deep breath and pushing aside the urge to snap at his superior.

"I'll ask around, see if anyone's found it," Hotch assured him.

"Thanks."

"When JJ gets out of surgery, just call me from the hospital. I want to know as soon as you know something."

"Absolutely. I'm going to find Garcia now."

"Try to stay on track. I know Agent Lewis can be a bit distracting," Hotch couldn't resist one last taunt before hanging up.

Obviously, the three bomb analysts had overheard Spencer's cellphone story—Rowena gave him an apologetic smile as she offered, "You can use my phone, if you need to get in touch with Hotch again."

"Thanks," he truly meant it. Then he stopped walking, looking around as he tried to orient himself with the building again, "Actually, I need to find…our technical analyst was sent here as well—I need to find her and make sure she's OK."

"How bad were her injuries?" Macaraeg asked.

"I'm not sure—but they sounded minor, in comparison to most of what we've seen today."

"Try the ER first," Macaraeg suggested. "They're still trying to process everyone through admitting—unless she had a major injury, she's probably stuck in a bed on the ER floor."

Spencer nodded and turned in the direction of the emergency room.

"Here," Rowena pulled out her phone and handed it to him.

"But—you need this," he offered it back.

"Use it to call Hotch again, once you've found your analyst," Rowena directed. "O'Donnell's number is already in there. Then you can just call Jeff's phone to find us again before we leave the hospital."

Jeff nodded in agreement.

"Thank you," Reid knew there wasn't anything else to say, yet it didn't seem like enough.

"No worries," she offered a bright smile. "I know you'd do the same for me."

For some reason, Penelope Garcia's voice popped up in his head, smug and happy, _And that, my friend, is what they call karma._

* * *

_**Quantico, Virginia.**_

The rest of the team knew something was up—their faces were lined with a mixture of curiosity and worry when Hotch returned to them.

"That was Reid," he informed them quietly. "JJ's in surgery—she's stable, but there seem to be a lot of things still up in the air on her condition. I told him to find Penelope, which is what he's currently doing."

"Good," Morgan gave a curt nod. "At least she won't be alone."

Rossi and Callahan made small noises of agreement.

"Right now, our main goal is to focus on profiling the crowd," Hotch reminded them. "You know as well as I do that it's not going to be a walk in the park—everyone reacts differently, and there's no wrong or right way to deal with traumatic stress. But keep your eyes open, and trust your instincts. Whatever you do, don't approach anyone or single them out. Simply report them to the Richmond team. Let them handle it from there."

The BAU nodded in understanding, their expressions equally grim and grave. Hotch gave a nod of dismissal, and they dispersed. The buses filled with agents were arriving, and people were spilling into the building, being directed to various rooms by the Marines and O'Donnell. The BAU had decided that would be the perfect way to insert themselves back into the crowd, to appear as inconspicuous as possible (people always changed their behavior when they knew they were being watched, which wouldn't help the BAU's cause in the least).

In a side hallway, the Flying J's stood in a small huddle, watching the people pile in.

"Christ on a cracker," Eden murmured, her tone tinged with awe. "This is going to take ages."

"We've got twenty-five other interviewers to help out," SSA Jessalyn Keller reminded her quietly. Jack glanced over at them with a small smirk—as usual, those two were opposites in every way, even in body posture. Keller had her arms crossed protectively over her chest, ankles touching, tidy and unassuming and taking up as little personal space as possible. Eden stood arms akimbo, feet set in a wide power stance that just dared someone to try and get past her.

"But we'll have to go back over all their interviews, won't we?" Eden challenged lightly. "Make sure they didn't miss something. Reading the damn transcripts will take longer than the actual interview."

"Some of us are more proficient readers," Keller returned coolly, not even bothering to glance over at her colleague.

Eden gave a light laugh at this—truly, she loved pushing Keller's buttons (though really, sometimes it was just too easy), and she actually liked it when the younger woman fired back. Otherwise it was one-sided and too close to the bullying that Eden had experienced herself as a child. She'd never pick on someone if she thought they couldn't handle it. And if anyone could handle a jibe or two, it was certainly Jessalyn Keller. For all her prim-and-proper-little-miss-Southern-belle ways, she had a brawling streak in her, with a razor-sharp tongue to match.

Judith Eden didn't have to look over her other shoulder to know that Jonas was giving her yet another warning look. She felt the instant and almost-irresistible urge to punch him in his pristine and always-in-her-business nose.

Her momentary amusement evaporated.

"Well then, let's have done with it, shall we?" She brushed past Jack Dawson, back into the instructor's office that was their temporary headquarters during the interview process.

Dawson took a moment to glance back at his remaining two team members (_what'd you do?_), only to be met with stares of incomprehension. Eden was generally the loosest, most relaxed person in the room. She didn't get snippy without provocation.

Of course, Jonas Shostakovich's confusion was feigned—he knew exactly why Eden had reacted that way, and he silently reminded himself to be more careful in her presence. She was like a loaded cannon with a lit fuse.

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

There were forty-eight tiles in the ceiling space of her little stall in the emergency room. Penelope sighed as she wondered why on earth she hadn't asked the nurse (Nick, she'd finally remembered to ask his real name) to bring her some magazines or something to help pass the time. He hadn't been lying when he said it'd be awhile before she could get into x-ray—it felt like _hours_ had passed.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for—yes, could you help me please?"

That voice. She knew that adorable sound anywhere. She sat up, calling out, "Reid! Reid, I'm here!"

There was a light fluttering of the white curtains that shielded her room (the stalls had walls on three sides, but the front was just a curtain), and suddenly Reid's anxious face appeared.

"Penelope," he was at her side in a flash, and she was pulling him down into a hug. "I'm so glad you're OK. I didn't know—Hotch just told me that you were here, I came as soon as I could."

"Wait, what are you doing here in the first place?" Penelope was confused.

Spencer quickly filled her in on the whole story—the fight with O'Donnell, JJ's condition and current status, seeing Rowena and Jeff again, Macaraeg's way of getting him back in touch with Hotch, finding her. In turn, Penelope told him the story of her own day.

"Don't get me wrong, because I'm very glad that we're all still alive—but I really hate days like today," Spencer admitted.

"Me, too," she reached out and gave his hand a squeeze of empathetic camaraderie.

"I really need to get back," he glanced at his watch, his face filling with sorrow. "I promised Henry I wouldn't stay away long, and it's already been forty-five minutes."

She grinned at the idea of a very-irate-yet-still-ridiculously-adorable Henry LaMontagne awaiting Uncle Spence's arrival (he looked even more like his mother when he was mad about something). "You better go then. Hell hath no fury like a godson scorned."

"I just…I don't know how Will does it," Reid's voice was lined with emotion. "I mean, we go into the field all the time, and it just—you don't always think about the people you leave behind. Like Will, wondering if this is the time that JJ goes into the lion's mouth and doesn't come back. I don't know how he deals with that, with knowing it could happen at any moment, and all the while he's got to look into Henry's face and pretend as if there isn't a problem in the world."

"I mean," he looked down at his feet, as if he was scared to even voice the words aloud. "Even now…this could be the time…."

He couldn't finish the thought, but Penelope understood.

"No, no…c'mere," she pulled him into a hug again. "We can't think like that. It's JJ. She's going to be alright. She has to be. That's how the world works—that's how our world works."

"It only works until it doesn't," Spencer informed her solemnly, gently disengaging from her embrace.

"Reid," Penelope's heart broke. She wanted to continue reassuring him, but she also knew that they weren't the same person—while she could never bear to even entertain any outcome that was less than ecstatically hopeful, she knew that Reid had to look at every angle. It was his way of protecting himself, of preparing himself for the worst. She'd once called him an optimistic pessimist—it was said in jest, but there was truth to the label. Spencer Reid always hoped that things would work out for the best, but he also always expected the worst, in some way. He'd often told her that when one prepares for the worst, they're either right or pleasantly surprised, but either way, they aren't blindsided by misfortune. While she understood the logic behind his statement, she couldn't emotionally agree with it.

Still, he was her friend and he was hurting, and he needed to be comforted in a way that fit with his own personality. So Penelope merely took his hand again, patting it reassuringly as she said, "We'll cross that bridge if and when we come to it, Reid. We just have to focus on what's happening now, and what we can change. And right now, there's a little boy who loves you very much, who is anxiously awaiting your return. You can't help JJ right now, but you can go in there and make that sweet little boy smile, even just for a little while, and that is something wonderful and amazing in itself. So go. Do that. I'll be in a cast and on crutches in two shakes of a lamb's tail, and then I'll be up there with you guys."

Reid nodded, blinking back tears. Garcia was right—he couldn't help JJ, but Henry still desperately needed him, even if his godson didn't really know it.

"I'll see you soon," he told her, taking a moment to make eye contact, to make a silent pact.

"Soon," she promised with a smile.

She waited until she was certain that he was really gone before she let herself cry.

* * *

"_Do not assume that she who seeks to comfort you now, lives untroubled among the simple and __quiet__ words that sometimes do you good. Her life may also have much sadness and difficulty that remains far beyond yours. Were it otherwise, she would never have been able to find these words.__"_

_~Rainer Maria Rilke._

* * *

_***Author's Note: As always, merci beaucoup for all the wonderful reviews so far!***_


	12. Askew

**Askew**

"_Rest when you're weary. Refresh and renew yourself, your body, your mind, your spirit. Then get back to work."__  
__~Ralph Marston._

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Thank you so much, you've been most helpful," Judith Eden gave a warm smile and a slight nod as she held the door open for yet another agent. Instead of going back the way that he came, the agent was directed down the opposite end of the hall, where they were keeping the people who'd already been interviewed.

She felt like a race horse being put through her paces—it was a demanding tempo, being forced to roll through interviews as quickly as possible, yet keeping the balance to make sure she still established a rapport with each interviewee, making them feel relaxed and unrushed. Hairpin turns and quick reversals in tone and pitch and body language, predicting and reacting to each response from the person being interviewed, at turns softening or strengthening her approach—Judith Eden used her whole body like a tool, a finely-tuned instrument that played to the theme called by the interviewee. It was exhausting, and the worst part was that it had only just begun.

With a light sigh, she turned to Cpl. Ryan, the Marine who'd been assigned to stand outside her room, just in case things went sour during questioning.

"I'm taking a five-minute break," she informed him tiredly.

"Yes, ma'am," he gave a curt nod.

"And for the love of Christ, if you call me ma'am again, I'm going to flash my tits at you," she warned. "Call me Eden—or SSA Eden, if you must."

"Yes, ma…Agent Eden."

She arched her eyebrow playfully (_almost, dear boy, almost_).

He fought back a smile.

"See you in five, Corporal."

"In five, Agent."

With another sigh and a shake of her head, she headed down the hall, back to the office that served as the Flying J's headquarters. Poor boy—if she ever did flash him, he'd probably faint with fright. Judith Eden had learned the hard way that fifty-year-old bodies rarely had the same effect as twenty- or even thirty-year-old ones.

She opened the door to temporary HQ with a loud, weary exhale, closing it behind her again as her fingers went to massage the bridge of her nose.

"Here." A cup of tea appeared in her vision, held by a set of perfectly-manicured nails that she'd recognize anywhere.

"Thank you," she didn't even attempt a snarky remark at Keller, who was already taking a sip of her own tea.

"I would ask how it's going, but your attitude when you walked through the door pretty much sums it up," Keller's eyes were big behind her black-rimmed glasses, flitting from every corner of Judith's face, gathering information to confirm her suspicions.

Eden gave a hum of confirmation, stepping further away from the door as she mimicked Keller's actions, scanning her colleague's body language, "How about you? Any damning confessions?"

"Nothing." Jessalyn admitted with a light sigh of her own. "Honestly, it's all so boring, I probably couldn't tell you one interview from another. They're all so…mundane. It's as if nothing like this could even possibly happen in a place as normal as this."

"As normal as the Federal Bureau of Investigation?" Now Eden arched her brow, taking a sip of her tea. "Hm, that's good."

"It's hot, at any rate," Keller conceded, taking another sip in agreement. She looked down at her cup, lightly swishing its contents around. "I know we're just getting started, but I'm so afraid…what if everyone's story is just as ordinary? What if everyone checks out on the surface?"

"Then we go back and look at 'em all again," Eden stated simply, her face aging with fatigue at the thought.

"What if the bomber didn't come to work today?"

Eden gave a small hum, "I had that thought, too. We'll have to get Roza to take a look—see who was off, who called in sick, who's just plain unaccounted for."

"I'll call Roza now," Keller offered, pulling her cellphone out of her skirt.

"Where the hell did that come from?" Eden asked in surprise.

Now Keller seemed embarrassed, "Well, this thing doesn't have pockets, so—"

"So you just stuff your phone down the waistband of your skirt?" Eden guessed, thoroughly amused at the thought.

"It's too hot in here to keep my jacket on," Keller defended her actions.

Eden laughed, "You could really have some fun with that, if you put it on vibrate."

Keller did not find the humor in that quip.

"Oh, forgive me—I have offended the lady's delicate sensibilities," Eden rolled her eyes heavenward in mock irritation, still too gleeful about the whole thing to be truly repentant or upset over Keller's reaction.

The blonde merely rolled her eyes, her cupid's bow mouth curling into a moue of disapprobation.

"Good to see the work of the day hasn't affected your usual delightful disposition," the older woman gave her colleague a friendly pat on the back, turning to set her now-empty cup on the desk. "Back to the drudges, I suppose."

Keller gave a curt nod, her attention focused on her phone as she found Roza's number on her speed-dial.

Eden's usual wicked smirk reappeared as she stopped at the door, turning back to the young blonde, "Jess?"

Those grey-green eyes snapped up, lined with a mixture of guarded curiosity and dread.

"I'm serious about the vibrate thing."

Keller's look was priceless. Eden couldn't help but cackle as she headed back down the hall. Knowing Keller, she'd find a way to retaliate—and Judith couldn't wait. Really, they needed _something_ to break up the tedium of the day.

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"Thanks again," Spencer handed Rowena her cellphone with a slight flourish.

"Anytime," she shared his smile. They were heading back to Quantico, and she hated the idea of leaving him here to wait alone. "Take care of yourself, OK?"

She truly was like Emily, in so many ways. Spencer pushed the thought aside and nodded, "You, too."

"We'll see ya back at Quantico soon," Jeff gave a curt nod, the hopeful tone in his voice not going unnoticed. Like Rowena, he wore a look of compassionate concern.

"Absolutely," Spencer agreed, tucking his hands back into his pants pockets.

Adelaide Macaraeg, who was at a respectful distance, gave a small wave, her lips pressing into a sympathetic smile.

With one last comforting pat on the arm, Rowena Lewis turned and left with the others. Spencer walked back into the waiting room, where Will and Henry were engaged in building a house of cards (well, _attempting_ to build one, anyways).

"Are those your friends?" Henry asked, his sharp six-year-old curiosity returning to his godfather with lighting speed. When Spencer had first returned, Henry had informed him that he'd been gone "for hours" (adult time: forty-eight minutes), and Spencer had explained that he'd met some friends along the way. And when they'd reappeared to pick up Rowena's phone, Henry had been brimming with curiosity, though his father had managed to momentarily distract him.

"Yes," Spencer sat down on the other side of the coffee table, inspecting the slow progress of the card house building.

"Why didn't they come in here with us?"

"Because they don't know Momma," Will answered gently.

"They don't?" Henry looked confused—and Spencer understood, because in Henry's world, every adult who was friends with Uncle Spence was also friends with Mom. Sadly, this wasn't the boy's first time in a hospital waiting room, and he'd become used to seeing the rest of the BAU here, too.

"Not yet," Spencer forced a hopeful smile. "But when she wakes up, I'm sure they'll be back to meet her."

_Or at least someone will_. Spencer knew that whenever JJ was able to take visitors, some investigator would be here to ask her questions, to determine her innocence—a thought that was infuriating to Spencer Reid (hadn't she been through enough, and how could they ever suspect her in the first place?), more so than his own impending questioning.

With a light sigh, he sat back in his seat, allowing his mind to drift as he watched Henry return to his building project. Henry was talking about his own friends now—how this one liked the same TV show as he did, and how that one always played ninjas with him, and how this other one was allergic to peanut butter (except he said "he has an _algae_" instead of "he has an _allergy_", at which point Will laughed and explained to Spencer that they'd tried to correct him on this numerous times, yet Henry refused to make the linguistic switch).

And while he was definitely grateful for the distraction, Spencer's brain still kept turning back to the clock, back to the continual count-down of JJ's surgery (an imprecise countdown, but each second brought them one second closer to finally seeing her again). He reminded himself that Dr. Mellinger was hopeful, that Penelope would be here soon, that Hotch and the others were fully up-to-speed on everything, and that all of those were very good things. He'd been able to call O'Donnell on Lewis' phone after leaving Penelope (and what should have been an awkward exchange wasn't awkward at all, because O'Donnell seemed to be concerned only with Garcia and Jareau's current status, not Reid's insubordinate actions), and he'd spoken to Hotch, letting him known that he'd found Penelope and she was on the mend. Hotch had been quietly grateful, and had told him to tell both women that the rest of their team would be there to see them as soon as possible.

Given the circumstances, they were currently sitting at the best possible outcome. Spencer hated his mind for wondering how long they'd stay there.

* * *

_**Mobile Command Center (MCC), Outside Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Sura Roza squinted her green eyes as she scrolled through the list of names. Agent Keller had called her earlier, asking her to look into anyone who wasn't at work today—and by applying the triage mentality, Roza went straight for the people who were unaccounted for. She'd been able to access the time-clock records from the off-site server, and now, she was merely finding people who were scheduled to be at work who had not yet clocked-in at the time of the explosion. Of course, she had to allow for variables, such as the fact that someone might just be running late, and may have been stopped in the parking lot before they could reach the main building—which meant she had to coordinate with Marines stationed at the Academy, getting them to search for the people in question, to determine if they were in fact here, but not yet clocked-in.

It was just as time-consumingly tedious as it sounded.

However, Sura didn't mind—it kept her occupied, and more importantly, it was necessary, albeit not glamorous. Like most analysts, she preferred the zipping-fast pace of keeping up with a team in the field, but the truth was, a lot of an analyst's time was spent doing very long-winded and boring tasks. She took her lumps like a good girl and focused on the results instead of the method.

The only real issue was being stuck here, in the mobile command center—it was a nice van, outfitted with some of the best technology available, but god, how she hated being stuck at a single, long desk with two other analysts. She preferred working alone, in her nice little office in Richmond, where she could blast her music (rock opera) as loud as she wanted while she slipped into her "groove".

But here she was, keenly aware of the fact that the analyst seated next to her was a mouth-breather, and the other one (Feder…something) had an awful nervous tic of tapping his heel against the floor.

It was hell.

Regardless of it all, she kept radioing the Marines, checking off names, and repeating the cycle. Jack Dawson was well aware of how much she disliked being pulled from her own cozy nest—he'd promised her a nice steak dinner in return for her coming into the field (not that she would have ever needed a bribe, not truly—she would go anywhere, follow any order, because that's who she was). She decided that she'd pick the most expensive place she could find—she deserved it, after living through this nightmarish work situation.

The MCC's door swung open, a flood of natural light piercing the low-lit gloom of the interior. Roza turned to see who it was, more out of habit than actual curiosity.

It was the bomb squad from New York. They seemed competent, and Roza had no thoughts or opinions about them in any form other than professional, so she returned to her work, thoroughly uninterested.

"Federer," Macaraeg offered a small smile of greeting before launching into her question. "How goes the SAR? Is the ninth floor cleared?"

Out of sheer habit, the analyst glanced back at his computer, though his screen didn't hold the answer. "Yeah, I think so—lemme double-check real quick."

Roza rolled her eyes. The search and rescue teams were on the eighth and seventh floors now, doing a secondary sweep to make sure that no injured personnel had been left behind—a fact that Federer should have known, since they'd radioed this in less than five minutes ago. Perhaps if he hadn't been so damn busy shaking the entire van with his incessant heel-tapping, he'd remember.

"They've already moved to lower levels," Sura informed them. Her tone was neutral but the set of her shoulders bespoke a sense of weary longsuffering and irritation.

"Thank you," Macaraeg said, truly meaning her words (she knew better than to make an analyst feel unappreciated).

Sura simply looked over her shoulder at the older woman, her relatively blank expression informing her that there really wasn't anything to be thankful for—after all, answering Macaraeg's query hadn't impeded her from doing her own job in the least.

Mac got the message. Her own expression changed to one of slight shock, her eyebrows raising in a cautious manner, as if to say, _I read ya loud and clear, lady_.

The corner of Sura Roza's mouth flickered into the briefest of smiles. Then she returned her attention to the computer screen.

Adelaide Macaraeg made a mental note to never ask Technical Analyst Roza for anything, for the rest of the case. She was what was affectionately called a German Shepherd analyst—that particular dog breed was notorious for being a "one person only" pet, and likewise, an analyst of that moniker held a deep loyalty to his or her assigned team. GSAs, as they were better known, were not the type to be asked for favors from outsiders, and they generally did not do well in settings where they were required to work with multiple agents outside their usual group. It was best to leave them be and let them take care of their own team. If your team had a GSA, it was wonderful. If you were the outside team being handed a GSA, it was hell.

Mac thanked her namesake that they had two other analysts from D.C., neither of whom seemed to be sporting any particular brand of loyalty to their home teams.

"Alright, cats and kittens," Mac drew in a deep breath as she glanced at both of her colleagues. "Time for the real fun to begin."

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"Jennifer Jareau?"

Will and Spencer both bolted to their feet at the sound, Henry suddenly jumping up as well, looking around wildly in confusion.

"Here," Will waved his hand lightly at the approaching surgeon. He'd met Dr. Mellinger earlier—she'd spoken to him and Spencer before surgery. He noticed she'd changed her medical scrubs, and his stomach flipped with fear. He'd known a few ER doctors back in New Orleans who preferred putting on fresh scrubs before going out to meet the family—because they didn't want to family to notice the blood on their clothes, blood belonging to their loved one.

How much of JJ's blood had been on the doctor's clothes this time? The thought was enough to send a funnel of dread pounding through his entire body—he could feel the pulse in his neck pressing into his throat, cutting off his oxygen as it kept time with the drum in his head.

"She's going to be alright," Dr. Mellinger offered a hopeful smile. Reid scrutinized her face, down to the micro-expressions, but he saw no hint of uncertainty or dishonesty—she truly believed her words. "She pulled out of surgery like a champ. Right now, we're slowly bringing her back from the anesthesia."

"How long until we can see her?" Reid couldn't stop himself from interrupting.

"Ah…" Dr. Mellinger glanced around. When she spotted the clock on the wall, she did some quick mental math, "Maybe an hour? Depending on how alert she seems, and how much the drugs reduce the swelling on her brain. Right now, we're honestly looking at a record-breaking recovery—you've got one very tough wife, Mr. Jareau."

"Um, no, it's LaMontagne," Will corrected gently.

"Oh, I'm sorry—"

"Don't be. You saved my tough wife's life, there's nothing to apologize for."

She smiled at this, "I just did the surgery. She's the one who decided to fight. As I was saying, it's going to be a little while before you can go in to see her."

She looked past them, to the little blond boy still standing ten feet away, straining to hear what was going on. Her voice lowered, "I think you should know—she's not going to look like herself. Her face is badly bruised, plus it's recovering from surgery. We've got her arm in a sling, and there'll be IVs and wires everywhere. It might not be the sight you want your son to see."

Will nodded in understanding. He didn't tell the doctor that Henry had seen his mother wounded before, that he'd been fifteen feet away when his mother had taken out a terrorist, or that the exact same terrorist had held Henry hostage while both of his parents were put in harm's path.

JJ may not want Henry to see her, but she needed to see Henry. He knew it, just as deeply as he knew anything else in this world. Jennifer Jareau's heart and soul belonged to that little blond imp who was currently pretending not to eavesdrop, and the sooner he was near her, the better she'd be.

Dr. Mellinger continued with her prognosis, "As we discussed earlier, she has several cracked ribs—those can heal on their own, along with the skull fracture, provided that the cranial swelling goes down. Right now, she's in the clear. All she needs is time to recover, and a lot of peace and quiet."

With one last smile, she headed back into the surgical wing.

Will let out a deep, shaky breath of relief. "Oh, thank goodness. I thought—I can't even say what I thought—"

"I know." Spencer admitted. "I thought it, too."

"I need to call Sandy," Will glanced back at his son—his cellphone was on the coffee table next to Henry. "She's on her way in; she'll be glad to know."

"I need to call Hotch, and then get down to the ER to tell Garcia," Reid looked around, hoping the nurse who'd so helpfully let him use the phone at the nurses station would still be on duty.

Will nodded, quickly walking back over to his son, "Hey, Henry, the doctor just came out to say that we're gonna get to see Momma soon."

"Soon? How soon?" Henry's eyes were lined with cautious curiosity, as if he suddenly understood the gravity of the situation.

"Soon," Will promised simply. He knelt down, holding his son by the shoulders. "She's taking a nap right now—she needs some rest before we can see her."

"But…we could go in there now—Mommy likes it when we all snuggle up and take a nap together," Henry countered. He glanced over at Reid, "Uncle Spence can come too."

Reid tried not to laugh at the mental image of all four of them curled up together in a hospital bed. Will was stamping down a smile as well, shaking his head.

"Momma has to rest alone for now," he informed his son. "Besides, that gives us time to go find a nice surprise for her."

"We're leaving?" The horror of such a prospect was evident on Henry's face.

"No, no, no, buddy," Will reassured him, gently rubbing his son's arms. "We're just gonna go downstairs, to the gift shop. They have all sorts of nice things, like flowers and balloons and teddy bears—we'll pick out something special for Mommy, OK?"

Henry nodded, grinning again at the thought of surprising his mother. "Maybe we could get her a coloring book."

"Hm. And what kind of coloring book would your mother like?"

"Maybe…Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?" Henry suggested helpfully.

"Really." Will did not seem surprised by this suggestion.

"Yeah. It's our favorite show."

"That is very true," Will glanced over his shoulder at Reid with a conspiratorial grin. "That's who we're going to be for Halloween this year."

"I'm Raphael," Henry announced proudly. "Mommy's Michelangelo, and Daddy's Leonardo."

His entire face lit up as he suddenly crowed, "And _you_ can be Donatello, Uncle Spence!"

Will started laughing, "Hey, it fits."

"You could join us for trick-or-treating—it would be so much fun!" Henry's little hands balled into fists of excitement as he imagined a night on the town with his favorite people, dressed up as his favorite characters.

For the life of him, Spencer Reid could never deny this happy little kid anything. "Dude, that sounds like the best plan ever!"

Henry cheered victoriously again. Then he turned back to his dad, "C'mon. We need to get Mommy's surprise before she wakes up."

"Alright. And we can't forget the Cheetos," Will was on his feet again, slipping his cell into his back pocket.

"I'll see you guys in a little bit," Spencer promised, giving Henry a small wave.

"See ya in a little bit!" Henry returned cheerfully, the scary uncertainty of earlier completely forgotten. Mommy was well, Uncle Spence was going to go trick-or-treating with them, Daddy was holding his hand—nothing could harm him, in this bubble of protective happiness.

_Jesus_, Spencer thought._ Kids. They can break your heart in the most innocent of ways_.

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Here," Scott O'Donnell approached Hotch, unceremoniously handing over the phone that had been confiscated earlier that morning.

Aaron Hotchner's expression filled with curiosity, though he didn't ask. With a sigh, O'Donnell answered the unspoken question.

"The press showed up outside fifteen minutes ago. Despite my attempts to keep this thing on the QT."

"I can't imagine anyone wanting to tip off the press." Hotch shook his head in incredulity.

"One of the Marines at the barricade radioed back and said that one of the reporters figured it out because he happened to be at the hospital with his daughter—apparently the sudden influx of FBI agents tipped him off, so he abandoned his kid with a broken arm and came out here to sniff around." The disgust was evident in O'Donnell's voice, and Hotch shared it.

"That still doesn't explain how the rest of the reporters got here," Hotch pointed out. O'Donnell understood what he was getting at—journalists generally didn't share their scoops, and the thought of getting a 'first on the scene exclusive' about an explosion at Quantico would have been too good to pass up, which meant the others had to find out some other way.

"Maybe our bomber wanted a bigger party," O'Donnell suggested in a low tone.

"I think you might be right," Hotch agreed unhappily. He hated media circuses, and this had all the markings of one. He certainly didn't envy Scott O'Donnell's part in the matter in the least—as the SAC of Quantico, he'd be the face they put on this fiasco (and ultimately, if heads had to roll, his would be the first on the chopping block, because that's how political perception and public vengeance worked).

Just then, Hotch's phone began to ring.

"Looks like I have perfect timing, for once," O'Donnell joked. He was turning away, but Hotch stopped him.

"I think it's Reid—he probably has an update on Agent Jareau and TA Garcia."

Hotch was correct on both assumptions, though Reid was actually on his way to check on Garcia again, who during his last check-in was awaiting a cast for her definitely-broken ankle.

"You got your phone back," was Reid's first response, and the relieved delight was evident in his tone.

"So at least one half of the communication equation is taken care of," Hotch agreed.

"I know. As soon as I see JJ and know she's alright, I'm going to pick up a new phone. I don't like being out of direct contact."

"Me, either," Hotch's mind instantly went to all the other times that Reid had been outside of contact—the entire situation with Hankel, the time he and Prentiss went into the Separatarian Sect compound, all the other incidents in which his silence was often a sign of the worst.

"I'll text everyone as soon as I get the phone, just so you know I'm back on-line." The young doctor promised, after relaying the latest developments on JJ's condition.

Hotch nodded in agreement, even though Spencer obviously couldn't see it. "Please do. And let me know if anything changes for JJ or Garcia."

"Will do, Hotch."

Hotch hung up and looked back at O'Donnell, who was anxiously awaiting a verdict. "They're all OK. Agent Jareau's out of surgery, and the doctors are very optimistic."

"Well, it's about time we got some good news," O'Donnell breathed a sigh of relief, running his fingers through his now-completely-messy brown hair.

"Does the rest of my team have their phones back yet?"

"They should," O'Donnell glanced around. "I wanted to deliver yours personally, with an apology. I realize how paranoid I came across this morning—"

"Understandably so," Hotch waved away the thought. "You were right—if John Curtis hadn't happened, then this would have seemed unnecessary. But based on recent events, there wasn't much choice. I know a lot of people are going to be re-thinking your actions over the next few days, questioning every move you make, but I want you to know that I won't be one of them. In the end, you have to trust your gut, and if that was what your instinct was telling you to do, then you did the right thing."

Scott O'Donnell took a full beat to look at this man—this strange, honorable man, with his no-nonsense directness and his unmasked face, this man who had several chances today to become an enemy but still chose to act as an ally. Suddenly he wondered why Aaron Hotchner wasn't the Quantico SAC.

"Thank you," were the only words he could find to say, but he meant them.

The BAU chief gave a curt nod, as if disengaging himself from the conversation, turning his focus to his cellphone. O'Donnell understood and simply left, returning to the business of helping Marines return phones.

Occasionally glancing around the room, Hotch shot out a quick text letting the rest of the team know that JJ was out of surgery and Penelope was on the mend—they'd all been assigned different rooms to scan and profile, so there wasn't any way to tell them in-person. They still had jobs to do.

Those jobs would be much easier, now that they had the certainty of knowing that their friends were safe—or at least safer than they were a few hours ago. At this point, it was the best they could hope for.

He suddenly wanted to call Emily Prentiss—as much as he hated to admit it, the sound of her voice would be a great comfort right now. And he hated this, not because he was ashamed of his feelings or his needs, but because he knew that they would only be an imposition on a woman who had enough worries of her own, half a world away.

His mind drifted—back to Nairobi, when they'd finally crossed the line between what they were and what they wanted to be, when they'd promised to simply let things fall where they may. Then he fast-forwarded to a year ago, when Emily had flown back to the States to find JJ and Cruz. That night, after the toasts and tearful goodbyes had been made, they'd gone back to his home, writing another chapter of their story across his sheets. And again, as they lay in the quiet stillness, she'd made him promise not to wait, not to waste his love and devotion on someone like her, who could never fully appreciate or return it (that last part was a lie, he knew, but he also knew that she'd lied to protect him). His lips had promised, but his heart had cried, _No, no, never…_

Emily wasn't afraid to love him. She was afraid of him loving her—she knew how much the BAU meant to him, how much his son meant to him, hard how hard he'd tried to find a healthy balance between the two, how he'd built and re-built a life here in Virginia, pushing past all the tragedies and losses. She never wanted to take that away from him, especially when she couldn't offer anything in return but a lover who wasn't always there because of her job, which she loved just as deeply as he did his own. She was the kind of woman who didn't mind sacrificing her own wants and needs for others, but heaven knows she both feared and hated the idea of anyone sacrificing something for her. It was a quality that was both endearing and saddening.

Another promise had been made as well—they weren't to try making a relationship happen, nor allow it to alter their prior relationship as friends and former colleagues. So he only called whenever it was absolutely necessary, and they exchanged the occasional email a few times a month. For the most part, everything was as it had been before the case in Nairobi.

Except for the emotions bouncing between the lines like schizoid ping-pong balls, of course.

He wanted to call her—and honestly, he knew that Emily would want to know what was happening with her friends. But he decided to wait. Once he had truly good news, he'd let her know. She was the head of Interpol's London Branch; she already had plenty of crises on her plate. She'd be unhappy that he hadn't told her sooner, but at least she wouldn't be stressed (or at least not as stressed as she would be if he told her now, when so much was up in the air). Aaron Hotchner decided that it was worth the risk. Because despite his promise (the promise he'd made with no intention to keep), he knew that he'd always make allowances for her heart and her needs, even when she didn't want him to.

He needed to stop thinking about her—he'd found it easier and easier to fall into thoughts of her, over the past year, and for some reason, over the past few weeks in particular. Maybe because next month would mark the anniversary of When It All Began—her near-death at Doyle's hands, his subsequent decision to put her into hiding, her time spent away that would later make her feel off-balance when she returned, which would in turn lead to her final departure. And while he knew that if she hadn't left, then they never would have pursued anything beyond their working relationship, Aaron Hotchner still missed having her in his life on a daily basis. Sometimes, he even thought that he'd sacrifice the _something more_ between them, if it meant getting to spend most of his days near her, hearing her laughter and her zinging one-liners, feeling her reassuring presence just two steps behind him as he entered a building, seeing that beautiful face quirked into an expression of confusion or sorrow or contemplation or amusement or any of the million-and-one emotions that he'd witnessed over the years. That was how he knew that what he felt for her was something deeper than lust—because he would have willingly thrown aside his physical desires if it meant having her around on a purely emotional scale. He certainly didn't regret a single second of how their relationship had changed since Nairobi, but god, why did it seem to be such an all-or-nothing ultimatum? Why couldn't he have her, and truly _have_ her, in all the mundane and constant ways that most people had the loves of their lives? Why couldn't they be _together_, and be together every day?

He shook his head. He was becoming pathetic, pining away over something that could never change. Neither one could (or should) give up their current lives, and if they were honest, neither one really wanted to.

Still. It didn't stop him from wondering _what if?_, every now and again. Like now—now, when he should be looking for a terrorist among the people he'd known for years.

_I'll call her tomorrow_, he told himself, trying to mentally file the dark-haired woman into the back of his mind. Of course, Emily Prentiss had never fit neatly into any box—another trait both endearing and infuriating—and likewise, she never simply slipped away from his thoughts.

The sad part was that he couldn't even find it in himself to be upset over the distraction. Aaron Hotchner felt as if he were losing his edge, and what scared him more was his inability to do a single damn thing about it.

_It's just an off-day_, he told himself. And in part, it was true—he'd started the day with very little sleep (there were just too many after-action reports to finish last night), and the emotional toll of having two team members trapped inside had drained what little energy he had left. There wasn't enough coffee in the world to make him as alert and alive as he needed to be for a job of this scale. The problem was that days like today didn't allow for being off-balance, for being anything other than top fighting form.

_It's just an off-day…but it's a hell of a day to be off._

* * *

"_You are gone, nothing's changed_

_and the problem, it's the same._

_I can live without you, it's true_

_but my love, what kills me is_

_I can't live without loving you."_

_~Christophe Honoré._

* * *

_***Author's Note: Events referenced in the last section (aka the stuff between Hotch and Prentiss) are chronicled in Out of Africa. **_

_**Also, if you have the time (and the inclination), I strongly urge you to find the song from which this ending quote is taken—Je ne peux vivre sans t'aimer (I can't live without loving you), performed by the singularly splendid Catherine Deneuve in the film Les Bien-Aimes (English title: Beloved). The film itself is on Netflix instant streaming, and I'm pretty sure you can find clips on Youtube. The entire song is just heartbreakingly beautiful (though you might need a version with subtitles, if you aren't a francophone).***_


	13. So It Begins

**So It Begins**

"_We go now to our bloody business."_

_~Unknown, Rome: Total War (PC Game)._

* * *

_**Ninth Floor, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Rowena Lewis took a deep breath before opening the door to the ninth floor—it hadn't exactly been a lark, lugging the gear up nine flights of stairs, but the tightness in her lungs wasn't from physical exertion. Her pulse had begun pounding around the eighth floor, her nervous system gearing up for whatever fresh hell awaited them at ground zero.

The bodies were already gone. It wasn't about that. It was about the sheer overwhelming sense of defeat that always accompanied scenes of this size and nature—there was always so much to be done, it seemed impossible to even decide _where_ to begin.

Most days, she loved her work—the minutest of details could make or break a case, the smallest fiber could change a scene's narrative, the lightest of latent prints could set a man free or put another behind bars where he belonged. It was a science, a delicate and detailed science which proved that no detail was insignificant, that no molecule was unimportant. It was beautiful in a way, a reaffirmation that everything and everyone had something to contribute to the world around them.

This was not one of those days.

Because in a scene as disorganized as this—a scene literally blown to bits—those minute details and small fibers and light latent prints were either completely gone or hidden beneath layers of dust and grime that made it almost impossible for them to ever be found. And all those beautiful little pieces that built the full, vivid picture of the crime itself were lost, which meant that there was greater room for error, for false trails and wrongful convictions, for years and perhaps even lifetimes of wrong answers or no answers at all. The prospect of such a conclusion was so frightening that it was hard to even commence.

"Here we go," Jeff was at her side, taking a deep breath as well.

She pulled the door open, surprised to see how normal the first view of the hallway seemed. When she stepped inside and turned towards ground zero, all appearances of normal dissipated.

Mary Weiss had painted a pretty accurate picture—the ceiling was a mess, wires and bits of metal beams hanging down like some kind of urban jungle, while the hallway was lined with debris, from overturned potted plants to books and side tables and shattered painting and plaques. At ground zero, the center of the blast, the walls and ceiling were simply gaping holes, the plaster blackened by the fire and melted by the fire sprinklers. In the middle lay the twisted remains of a mail cart, covered in a pile of blackened ceiling tiles.

Schuyler. That was the kid Mary had mentioned, who wasn't even supposed to be here at this hour. Rowena tried not to think about him, or about anyone who'd been within fifty feet of him at that fateful moment.

"Alright," Mac's voice interrupted the awful silence, her tone tinged with regret and fatigue (this never got any easier, never). "Let's go ahead and establish the quarantine zone."

Jeff nodded in agreement, setting his case down. "This looks as good a place as any. We can start the actual zone about fifteen feet ahead, where the damage is higher."

Mac squinted slightly, estimating the depth of the scene. "What'd you say that was—about sixty feet from ground zero?"

Jeff took a side-step closer to his superior officer, mentally judging the distance. "Yeah. Sixty-three at the most."

"You wanna place a price on that bet?" She turned to him, amusement etching her features at the precision of his guess.

He merely grinned in response. "They didn't call me Old Eagle-Eye for nothing."

"Well, they certainly didn't call you Old for nothing," Roe murmured, crouching down to rummage through her case.

"You wanna try that again, Agent Lewis?" He asked, though they both knew that he'd heard her the first time.

"Just making a general observation, sir," she looked back up at him, face meticulously devoid of any emotion. "You know, like how your hair's more grey than brown these days. And you're slower on the stairs than you used to be."

"I didn't see you sprinting your way to the top," he returned easily, kneeling down to open his pelican case as well.

"Hey, now," Mac was opening her case, too. She pulled out her white forensic jumpsuit, unfolding it with a quick snap. "Don't start throwing around accusations of old age. As the official old lady of the group, I'll be forced to smack you with my cane."

They grinned at the mental image.

"Aye-aye, boss," Jeff stood again, removing his coat and his over-sweater before pulling on his jumpsuit. Without any electricity to run the heaters, it was still a bit chilly inside, but he knew from personal experience that the jumpsuits didn't breathe worth a damn, and soon he'd feel like he was boiling alive.

Obviously, Mac didn't share his sentiments, because she kept her zippered hoodie—they'd all changed into field clothes upon returning from the medical center, since slacks and dress shoes weren't exactly conducive to climbing around in debris for hours on end. The sight of his usually-dressed-to-the-nines supervisor decked out in jeans and sneakers and a long-sleeved tee with a hoodie was still hard to process.

Rowena opted to keep her sweater on as well, zipping the jumpsuit over it with a rueful smile. "I guess the Michelin-Man look is back in fashion this season."

Mac gave a light snort at the comparison—in fit, seeing as their bulky garments didn't exactly enhance the already-unflattering lines of the jumpsuit.

Once their hoods were on, they grabbed their booties, waiting until they actually reached the quarantine line before putting them on (it wouldn't do any good, tracking in bits from outside the line). Then Mac set up the laser scanner, and they made full scans of the entire scene from several angles and depths, slowly making their way from one end of the site to the other. Once they had enough to recreate a comprehensive in-depth schematic of the scene, they began the real work.

"How 'bout some music, yeah?" Mac asked, pulling her cell phone from her pocket.

"Depends on if it's any good," Rowena countered.

"Watcha like?" Mac began scrolling through her music library. "I've got everything from rap to classical symphony—well, except country music. I really can't stand it."

"Rap, really?" Jeff looked at her incredulously.

"The genre can contain surprisingly poignant lyrics," she informed him. "Honestly, if you don't tear up while listening to Macklemore's Wing$, you truly have no soul."

"So this is how Alice felt," he murmured, certain that he himself was down some kind of rabbit hole.

"Oh, then how about Jefferson Airplane?"

"Put it on shuffle," Rowena suggested, her eyes still dancing with amusement at the thought of her straight-laced boss relaxing to Jay-Z. "It'll be a constant surprise."

"I like the way you think," Mac pointed at her in approval. Then she tapped a few buttons on her phone before cranking the volume up as loud as it could go.

Jeff Masterson just shook his head. He glanced over at his partner, who was grinning, as usual. Truly, he didn't mind a little distraction from the heavy work of the day—and if it put a smile on Roe's face, well, that was definitely worth it, too.

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"OK, so technically, it _is_ broken, but I've got this splint instead of a cast," Penelope explained, lifting her injured leg up for Spencer Reid's inspection. "The doctor wants me to use crutches for a couple of days, but within a week or two, I should be back to walking around. I'll have to keep the splint for another six weeks or so, but it's not bad at all."

"No, not at all," Spencer agreed, slightly surprised—the swelling had already gone down, though her ankle was still a deep purple hue.

"Nick's getting me a wheelchair, for now," she informed him. "For in-hospital use only, obviously. So get ready to be my personal driver, my good fellow."

"Only until after we see JJ," he warned. "Then I have to go get a new phone."

"I don't even know where mine is," she glanced around helplessly. "I think—I think I left it at my desk. I hate feeling so disconnected from everyone."

Spencer gave a hum of agreement and understanding.

The curtain separating Garcia's stall from the rest of the ER shifted slightly, and Nick's smiling face appeared, "You all decent, darling?"

"Oh, my dear, you should know I'm never decent," Penelope returned with a knowing grin.

Nick laughed, opening the curtain with a dramatic flair, "Your chariot awaits."

With a small cheer of delight, Penelope gingerly got up, standing on her good foot. Spencer and Nick helped her get into the wheelchair.

"You're not officially discharged yet," Nick warned her. "So you do have to come back—though I doubt anyone will miss you for at least another forty-five minutes."

He glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the ER, which was still a madhouse.

"We're just going up to ICU," she assured him. He nodded in approval, giving a small wave as he headed off to check on his next patient.

"Alright, boy wonder. Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

Will and Henry were already back in the waiting room—Henry jumped up and down with delight when he saw Penelope approaching.

"Nelope!" He cried out.

"Nenry!" She returned with her personal nickname for him (she'd decided it was only fair to change his name if he was going to change hers).

As always, he laughed at the moniker, as if she'd just told the funniest joke in the world.

"C'mere, you," Penelope opened her arms, and he quickly ran into them. Despite her injuries and her sore muscles, she still tickled and cuddled, so grateful to see this shining face again. She glanced up at Will, her expression becoming less jovial, "Hey. How ya holding up?"

"I'm used to this," he replied quietly.

"That's not an answer," she pointed out, just as quietly.

He glanced down at his son, who was still sitting in her lap, watching the exchange with unguarded interest. Penelope understood and let the matter go.

"So what have you got for Mommy?" She turned her focus back to Henry, who quickly hopped back onto his feet.

"Flowers," he motioned to the large bouquet, already in a glass vase, which his father wouldn't let him hold. "And a balloon—"

"Is that a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?" Penelope asked in mock awe and delight.

"Yup," he shared her excitement. "I wanted to get Mommy a coloring book, but they didn't have any—so we got this instead. And some Cheetos!"

He held up a big bag of chips triumphantly, and Penelope and Spencer couldn't help but laugh.

"That's gonna cheer Mommy right up," Penelope assured him. "Cheetos are the best."

"There's plenty to share," Henry offered.

"I don't think you understand just how much Mommy loves her Cheetos," Will drolly informed him. The other two adults made noises of agreement.

A nurse stepped into the waiting room, "Jennifer Jareau's family?"

Everyone turned to her.

She gave a warm smile, "We've got to be very quiet—there are other people in ICU who are resting as well."

This was obviously directed at the excited six-year-old, who was hopping from one foot to the next, bursting with anticipation.

Her next statement was for the grown-ups, "I'm afraid you won't have much time—we don't want her to over-do it."

They nodded in understanding before following her back into the Intensive Care Unit.

The stillness and the darkness of the unit made Henry mute into a much more serious form. His wide eyes darted from room to room as he shifted closer to his father.

Spencer wanted to reach out and hold his tiny hand, except he was too busy pushing Penelope's wheelchair. Instead, he followed seven steps behind, his heart aching with every movement of his godson's tiny, timid feet.

Will had already taken great pains to warn Henry of how JJ's appearance would change, trying to remain as clinical and calm as possible while still making it understandable for a six-year-old. However, that didn't stop his father-heart from seizing with fear when they finally entered his wife's room.

He didn't know if he'd ever seen her look worse—though she still looked better than he'd imagined, considering the long list of injuries she'd sustained. Her right eye, her nose, and half of her mouth were the only parts really visible, but the damage was undeniable. The left side of her face was completely bandaged, but what parts he could see were stained a blackish-purple. Those deep bruises bled into a crimson red, which traveled over to the right side of her face. Despite all this, her right eye was open, waiting for them.

"Mommy?" Henry's voice wavered with uncertainty.

"I'm right here, baby," she held out the arm that wasn't in a sling. Her own voice was thick with tears, but it was familiar and Henry lit up in recognition again as he bolted to the bed. Will had to pull him back, to keep him from leaping into JJ's lap.

"Wait just a second, buddy," Will set the vase of flowers on a side table, scooping his son up and gingerly sitting him on the edge of the bed. "We have to be gentle with Mommy, remember?"

Henry nodded in understanding, big eyes focusing on his mother with fearful curiosity.

"It's OK, bud," she assured him, reaching out to let her hand run up and down his arm comfortingly. "I'll be just fine in a few days."

"Why don't you show her what we got?" Will prompted. Henry proudly took the bag of Cheetos from his father's hands, holding them up like a trophy.

"Ah, perfect," JJ chuckled softly. She winced slightly, and Will knew that the action had stressed her injured ribs.

"And we got you a Mikey balloon," Henry announced, pointing back to the balloon that was attached to the flowers.

"How awesome—my favorite turtle ever!" JJ mustered as much excitement as she could in response, though it drained her already-limited energy. Will had moved to the right side of the bed, reaching forward to softly let his hand trail down her arm to her own hand, which gratefully intertwined her fingers with his. Their two hands pressed together, melding the maps of their palms into one as they silently communicated their worry, their fear, their relief, and their love. She offered a small, wobbly smile, her one visible eye glimmering with unshed tears. He smiled back, as bravely as he could.

"Uncle Spence is gonna dress up with us at Halloween," their son informed her, his face glowing. "He's gonna be Donatello!"

"Well, that's just perfect," JJ decreed with a smile, which made her swollen cheeks feel as if they were going to burst.

For the first time, she glanced up at her two friends, who were waiting quietly in the doorway.

"Penelope," her voice was soft, lined with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Asks the girl in ICU," her friend returned with a good-natured quirk of her brow.

JJ simply smiled—she couldn't argue with that. Still, Penelope assured her, "It's broken, but I won't even need a cast. I'll be back on my feet and right as rain in no time at all."

"What…what happened?" JJ's energy was fading fast, but she still needed to know.

"I was in Cruz's office when it happened," Garcia admitted. She glanced at Henry, obviously trying to keep the story as kid-friendly as possible. "I fell and hurt my ankle."

JJ swallowed, closed her eyes, prepared for the worst, "And Matt? What about Matt?"

* * *

"_Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers."__  
~__Voltaire__._

* * *

**_*Author's Note: Thanks so much for all the great reviews, follows, and favorites. I've been away for a few days, so I'm still responding to some of those reveiws-but soon! Thanks again.*_**


	14. A Rock and a Hard Place

**A Rock and a Hard Place**

"_I have no desire to suffer twice, in reality and then in retrospect."_

_~Sophocles._

* * *

_***Author's Note: A very huge, heartfelt thank you to everyone who has left reviews or added this story to follows or favorites lists so far. It's such a fun ride, and we're just getting started. Hold on, chickadees.***_

* * *

_**Earlier that Morning. Capitol Hill. Washington, D.C.**_

"And what was the nature of this mission, Agent Cruz?"

"It was an intelligence-gathering op—our orders were to track down the whereabouts of known terrorists, and report back."

"And how, exactly, was the information to be gathered?"

"By all means possible, sir."

"Did those means include interrogation?"

"Our orders were to interview potential suspects and local witnesses who might have information."

"And did those _interviews_ contain interrogative methods that relied on the use of force?"

"Sir, I was not personally present for every single interview; I couldn't possibly commit to answering such a question."

The senator took a beat to merely look down his nose at Mateo Cruz, the disdain evident upon every fiber of his features. It wasn't because of Cruz's answers so much as it was because Cruz had bested him in this little battle of wills and wits.

Mateo Cruz simply smiled back. This wasn't his first Senate Oversight rodeo, not in the least. And sadly, it wouldn't be the last—since several of his missions in Afghanistan had become declassified, he'd been called up to the Hill to answer countless questions, as if somehow his responses would ever change. It was time-consuming, pointless, and a waste of taxpayers' money. It was bureaucracy at its finest.

His phone suddenly buzzed in his coat pocket, and he retrieved it without a second's hesitation.

"Agent Cruz, we're going to have to ask you—"

"Senator, may I remind you that I am the section chief for one of the most high-profile units in the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he interrupted quickly. "And as of this moment, I do still have duties to attend to."

He stood and turned away, keeping his voice low as he answered, "Chief Cruz."

"Matt." It was Scott O'Donnell, the Quantico SAC. "There's been an incident at Quantico."

"I'm leaving now—"

"No, no. Stay. Finish pandering to those assholes. Don't want anyone to know that something's wrong here—not yet. The Hill's crawling with reporters; if one of them sees you speeding out of there, they might catch wise. I just wanted you to be aware."

"What's happening?" Cruz kept his voice low, though worry and frustration were bubbling up in his throat like acid.

"We don't know for sure yet—about twenty minutes ago, there was an explosion on the ninth floor. We're thinking it's a bomb."

"Jesus."

"Yeah," O'Donnell gave a heavy sigh. "It hit pretty close to your office. You're one lucky man, Cruz."

"Yeah, I guess so." For some reason, he didn't feel so lucky. "Keep me posted, will ya?"

"Absolutely. Call me when you're done—I'll let you know where to go from there."

He wanted to ask if anyone he knew was wounded—but the list of names was too long and time was too short. So instead, he nodded, quietly agreeing, "I'll call you. Be careful out there."

"Will do." O'Donnell hung up.

Matt turned back to the senators, whose expressions ranged from bored to curious to insulted.

"I apologize for the interruption," he slipped his phone back into his pocket, forcing himself to smile with an air of nonchalance that covered his true feelings. "Perhaps we can continue with the next question."

He answered the rest of the committee's queries without any further interruption or hesitation—but for the life of him, he couldn't recall a single one.

* * *

_**Several Hours Later. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Mateo Cruz leaned forward in the driver's seat, eyes wide with shock at the number of television crews outside the main building. Through the throng, he spotted the MCC van, pulling his vehicle down the appropriate driveway to reach it.

When he rolled down his window to show the Marines his credentials, he was barricaded by a volley of questions, shouted from the reporters who were being kept at a safe distance.

"Sir! Sir! Can you tell us what's going on here?"

"Is this a terrorist attack?"

"Who's behind this?"

"Who's in charge?"

"Does the FBI have any leads at this time?"

The answers to those questions frightened him, even though he didn't know them yet.

He parked his car next to the row of standard-issue black SUVs, pulling his phone out of his overcoat pocket. He dialed the last number on his recent calls list.

"O'Donnell."

"It's Cruz. I'm here. What do you need me to do?"

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"What about Matt?"

Spencer's heart stopped at the question. As much as he hated to admit it, he hadn't given a single thought to his section chief. His only concern had been for his team members—most particularly JJ, whose situation had proven herself worthy of such concern. "I—I don't know. I'm assuming he made it out safely, if he was even there yet at all."

"He was there." Penelope gave a definite nod. "His computer was on—this morning, I went up to his office to ask for his input on some cases. It was obvious that he'd just left the room for a little bit."

"Oh my god," JJ's head suddenly felt too heavy. She titled back, letting it rest on the pillow behind her. "He could have been right down the hall—"

She didn't finish her sentence. They knew what she meant (_right down the hall, where the bomb went off_).

"We don't know that for sure," Will interrupted quickly, trying to keep his voice calm and soothing.

"I'll call Hotch and ask." Spencer promised, stepping forward slightly.

"Carrington wasn't there yet, so I know she was safe." Penelope offered helpfully, trying to ease some of the stress of the situation.

Spencer's mind flashed to earlier that morning, when he'd looked across the front drive to see Rossi, who was separated from the rest of the team. "Yeah, she was actually outside the barricade with Rossi, in the beginning."

"But that doesn't tell us where Matt was," JJ stated, her tone flat and neutral (a sign that she was trying to cover up her frustration and fear, Spencer knew).

"He'll be fine, JJ," Will assured her. "Right now, you need to focus on yourself—the only thing you can control in this situation is making sure that you stay calm and allow your body to heal."

JJ knew he was right, but that didn't stop her from wanting to snap at him, to tell him to stop being so damn patronizing. Luckily for him, Henry was still in the room, watching her every move with eyes the size of saucers.

"You're right," she admitted, sighing heavily as she tried to release the stress building in her blood. Then, with a cheeriness that she certainly didn't feel, she added, "Thank goodness I have all these awesome gifts to help."

Henry grinned proudly at the statement, leaning over to rest his head on his mom's lap. "Don't worry, Mommy—Grandma's gonna be here soon. She's good at making you feel better when you're sick."

JJ took a moment to look up at her husband, her one visible blue eye filled with surprise.

"I had to call her," Will held up his hands in a helpless gesture. She knew that he had a point (god, her mother would _never_ let her live it down, if she'd kept something this traumatic from her). So instead, she decided to keep the tone light, forcing aside her inward cringing at the thought of her mother hovering over her.

"Henry will be eating nothing but pizza and ice cream for a week, if it's just you and my mom taking care of him," JJ informed him, her tone laced with feigned concern.

"Yay, pizza!" Henry sat up again, pumping his fists in the air.

Penelope laughed, "Don't worry, Wonder Mom. I'll come over every other night or so, cook the boy a balanced meal. That's what godmothers do, isn't it?"

"Oh, no, Penelope, you don't have to—"

"Au contraire, mon amie—I believe it is in the official godmother handbook," Penelope held up her hands to stop JJ's protest. She winked at Henry, "Besides, it gives me an excuse to hang with this wicked cute kid."

Henry beamed over his shoulder at his godmother, keenly aware of the fact that he was adored by every single person in the room.

There was a gentle tap on the door, and the nurse's regretful face appeared, "I'm sorry, but time's up. Agent Jareau needs her rest."

"I love you," Will leaned forward, placing a quick and gentle kiss on her lips.

"I love you, too," she murmured.

"I love you three!" Henry completed their familiar refrain. He leaned across his mother's lap again, arms wrapping around her legs. JJ leaned forward to rub his back, patting him affectionately with a tearful smile. Her ribs screamed in protest and her head felt fizzy again, but she didn't care. Her baby was here and he was safe and the worry and fear that had been in his eyes when he first saw her were completely gone. That was all that mattered.

Spencer slipped past Will, and JJ held out her hand for his. He gingerly squeezed her fingers—the closest he dared to hugging her. "I'm so glad you're OK."

"Me, too," she smiled wanly, her energy nearly depleted. "And I'm glad it was you, in the back of the ambulance with me. If anyone else had told me it was gonna be OK, I wouldn't have believed them."

He blinked back tears at her confession, and she reached up, her right arm pulling him down into a half-hug. "It's all going to be OK, Spence."

He nodded, pulling away to return to Penelope's side.

The blonde technical analyst reached forward, her hand lightly patting JJ's foot reassuringly. "See ya again soon, Toots. Try to play nice with the nurses."

JJ grinned again. "I'll try."

Will was on the opposite side of the bed again, hoisting up Henry and gingerly leaning him closer to his mother's face so that they could exchange a quick kiss as well.

"Have a nice nap, Mommy," Henry was absolutely cherubic.

"I will, my darling," she promised, reaching out to caress his sweet face. "Be good for Daddy and Grandma, OK?"

"OK."

"And thanks for my super-cool Mikey balloon. I love it."

Henry offered one last dazzling smile before hurrying into the hallway with Uncle Spencer and Aunt Nelope.

Will sat down beside her again, his voice low and lined with tears, "God knows I love you to death, Jennifer Jareau, but I wouldn't mind if you stopped getting quite so close to the death part of that equation."

It was meant as a joke, but the words struck home.

"I know," she admitted quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't you dare apologize." Now the tears were slipping freely down his face. "You didn't do this; you had no way of knowing this would happen. I'm just so damned glad you're alive."

"Me, too." A single tear escaped from her own eye. He reached forward, gently brushing it away.

"You truly are the strongest, bravest person I know," he informed her. "You're my hero, you know that?"

She was smiling through the tears this time, in that glowing, happy way that she'd smiled at him when she placed Henry in his arms for the first time, and when they'd held each other's hands as they'd exchanged marriage vows.

"You're the brave one," she assured him. Her grin deepened into something more playful as she added, "Spending God-only-knows-how-long cooped up in a house with my mother and our child? That's not for the faint of heart."

He chuckled at the quip, shaking his head, "Your mama will be fine. I'm just dreading when you get back home and you go into drama queen mode, like you always do when you're sick or injured."

"Drama queen? I just survived a fall from a—"

"I see it's already rearing its ugly head," he commented drolly.

"William LaMontagne, if I weren't already too sore to move, I'd hit you for that."

"I don't doubt it, darling," he flashed a winning grin, one that somehow snuck its way onto his wife's face as well. He reached over to rub her hip comfortingly, giving her knee a tender squeeze of affection. "Get some rest, baby. We'll be back to see you soon. I love you."

"I love you, too." She blinked back a fresh round of tears. His hand shifted forward, taking hers and placing a single, warm kiss in her palm before hurrying out the door—the nurse was already giving him a dirty look for pushing the limit on their visiting time.

"How're you feeling?" The nurse asked gently, checking her vital signs monitor.

"Like I could sleep for a year." JJ answered honestly.

"Well, I'm going to give you a little something that will help for a few hours, at least."

JJ nodded, closing her eyes as the nurse lowered her bed back into a sleeping position. When the drugs finally took effect, she dreamed of the desert, of explosions and ringing ears, and the second child that should have been standing next to Henry.

* * *

_**Ninth Floor, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"This must be the mail cart that Mary Weiss was talking about," Rowena Lewis frowned slightly—the remains looked more like some weird modern art sculpture than a mail cart. Several of the thinner wire bars were completely blown away (and Rowena tried not to think of where or in whom they landed), and the top rack was contorted into odd angles, though the bottom seemed fairly intact, compared to the rest.

Adelaide Macaraeg gave a hum of agreement. "It's gotta be pretty close to ground zero, given the damage. Why don't we start there and work our way out?"

Rowena nodded, crouching down to give it a closer inspection. Jeff Masterson went back to their cases, which were at the edge of the caution tape that they'd used to establish the quarantine zone, grabbing the necessary supplies.

Mac knelt as well, giving a slight grimace.

"Y'Okay?" Rowena asked quietly.

"Yeah," her expression said the opposite. "Those stairs didn't do my knees any favors, that's all."

The younger woman nodded in understanding. "Old injury?"

Now her chief gave a wry smirk, "Just old."

"Here we are," Jeff was back, handing Roe a set of tape strips and latent print powder. Then he gave them both a headlamp set before donning his own. It was barely afternoon, but it was still winter and daylight would be fading fast. The natural light from the windows wouldn't be enough for the work they were doing—they needed to be able to see the smallest piece of evidence, things that could easily be lost in the shadows.

"Thank you, kind sir," Rowena took a moment to slip the band on her head and click the beam on, using the time as a chance to figure out where to begin. She decided to start with what was left of the handle bar, working her way down to where most of the damage was. She motioned to the area, allowing Jeff to take several pictures before beginning.

Jeff had given a small notebook to Mac, who was currently sketching out a rough diagram of the scene, just in case they missed something with the laser scanners.

"I don't know how much this will give us," Mac admitted, still focused on her task. The metal was a nonporous surface, which meant the likelihood of anything important sticking to it was relatively slim.

Roe gave a hum of agreement, but she didn't stop. Opening the aluminum powder, she lightly dusted the handle—seeing instant results.

"We've got a clear outline of a palm," she stated. She rose to her feet again, hovering her own hands over the spots, lining up the scene in her mind, "Two palms. Schuyler's hands, where he was holding the handle bars."

"And it looks like…genetic material," Jeff leaned forward, squinting slightly. There definitely was an odd film on the bars.

Roe suddenly understood. "He was holding on when the blast went off. The metal heated at an extremely rapid pace—searing his skin. It got left behind, after."

She didn't have to add that _after_ was after the blast, after his death, after the rescue team most likely pried his burned hands away from the metal.

Mac stopped her scribbling to look up at the handle bars, her expression melting into one of dismay as her mind played the narrative.

"And he wasn't even supposed to be here," she murmured quietly, her voice etched with heartbreak.

Jeff gave a hum of sympathy. Rowena went back to dusting the handles. Once she'd uncovered all fingerprints on the bars, she began putting the strips of tape on them, cautiously smoothing them over so that she didn't mess up the prints and gingerly removing them, applying them to the small black boards that highlighted the aluminum contours of the prints.

Jeff was still taking photos, so Mac took each print board, scribbling numbers on the back and jotting down the corresponding numbers with descriptions onto her notepad.

It was tedious work, meticulous and steady. Their knees began to ache; their calf muscles went to sleep; their lower backs radiated slight growls of protest up their spines. Mac's music kept rolling through its odd compilation of songs, and for the most part, they didn't speak.

Rowena finally reached the bottom of the cart. She'd given up the print powder and was now simply collecting samples of the black and ash colored residue that covered the metal. For the most part, it simply looked like smoke damage from the fire, but once she got to the bottom rack (or what was left of it), she noticed the ash was thicker, and in a pattern.

"Get a good shot of this," she motioned to the odd but unmistakable radius of the pattern.

"'Cause until now, I've just been taking blurry, out of focus shots of everything else," Jeff muttered in feigned irritation.

"Just keeping ya on your toes, Masterson."

"If that's what you call it, then I should be a ballerina," he returned dryly. Mac snorted at the thought of the burly Jeff Masterson in tights and a tutu.

"You do have the legs for it," his partner kept her face completely deadpan, her focus still on the task at hand.

"She's right, I do," Jeff admitted to Mac, who only laughed harder at the confession.

"I must admit, I am both intrigued and frightened by that mental image," she informed him.

"As you should be," he assured her.

"There's glass here," Rowena interrupted in a distracted tone. The other two analysts immediately leaned forward, their jovial expression gone in a flash. With a pair of tweezers, Rowena pointed out the pieces of glass on the floor, under a layer of ash and other small debris, visible between the thin metal wires of the mail cart's bottom shelf. "Looks like it fell through the cracks."

She dutifully waited for Jeff to snap a few photos. "I'll process the rest of the residue on the cart first—then we can move it and get to the glass."

Her team members nodded in agreement. Mac got up and returned to the pelican cases, depositing the print samples and grabbing a handful of small tubes to collect more residue.

It was almost another half-hour before Rowena had collected enough samples of the ash to be fully satisfied. She and Mac gingerly lifted the cart and moved it a few feet back, trying not to disturb the contents underneath.

"Lots of glass," Mac commented, fingers lightly picking away bits of debris and setting them aside. "It's…coated with something."

She held up a quarter-sized piece for inspection—her headlamp's beam illustrated her point, catching the strange powdery whiteness that covered the shard's surface.

"It's only on the inside of the glass," she noted, her tone filling with a certain sense of foreboding.

"Same on this piece," Rowena retrieved another one with her tweezers, gingerly setting it in her gloved palm.

"A glass container, filled with some powder substance, sent through the mail," Mac's voice was thoughtful. "What are the chances that this _isn't_ our bomb?"

Jeff and Roe's faces informed her that they shared her sentiments.

"We need to get this to the lab immediately," she deposited the glass into a plastic container, holding it out so that Rowena could drop her piece in, too. Then she swore under her breath, "Not that it's gonna do any good—there's no power in the building, which means the lab itself is pretty fucking useless."

"Plus all the lab techs are at the Academy for questioning," Jeff added.

Mac swore again. "We don't have time to wait for all that."

She handed the container to Rowena, who continued collecting bits of glass.

"Hold on," she rose to her feet, taking off her gloves before pulling her phone out of her pocket and turning off her music. "I'll call O'Donnell, see what he can do."

Within a matter of minutes, they had a promise from O'Donnell that he would have a batch of lab techs on the next round of interviews, so that as soon as they gave their statements, they could return to the lab to begin processing whatever Mac needed. Then they turned to the more important matter at hand.

"What's it looking like up there?" O'Donnell asked. "Is it safe to turn the generators back on?"

Mac glanced up at the ceiling, where broken and exposed wires swayed ominously. "Not for us, I'd say. There'd be a huge risk of brushing up against a live wire, or stepping on one. Or even possibly starting an electrical fire in the ceiling or a wall. But the lab will need power, and we'll need lights, if we want to keep working after dark. And I have to admit, a heater wouldn't be unappreciated, either."

Rowena Lewis made a small noise of agreement—there was at least one blown-out window, and the cold February air was taking over the hallway.

"We've got smaller generators," O'Donnell assured her. "We'll keep the back-up ones that power the whole building turned off—but I'll have someone haul up a small one for you, along with work lights. And I'm sure we can find a heater, too."

"God love you for a saint, Scott O'Donnell."

"Can't say I feel like that's the case today," he admitted dryly, though his tone still held a hint of amusement.

She couldn't argue with that. Instead, she asked, "And the lab?"

"They'll get a couple of generators, too. No heaters for them, though. Don't want them getting too comfortable," he joked.

She thanked him again and hung up.

"Now that's what I call getting results," Jeff commented.

She gave a light shrug, wincing again as she returned to her knees. "Part of the job, I suppose. Luckily, O'Donnell's so desperate for answers that he'll pretty much do anything we ask."

"He's definitely in between a rock and a hard place," Jeff agreed quietly.

"We're all in between a rock and a hard place," Mac pointed out. She glanced around, noting the shards of glass that were going outwards, towards what was left of the walls. "And I think we're at absolute ground zero."

"So someone sent a bomb in the mail," Rowena surmised. She looked up at Jeff, her hazel eyes muddled with confusion. "But who was the package meant for?"

"And how did it get this far without exploding beforehand?" Jeff returned her question with another.

"We won't know until we figure out what it's made of," Mac admitted quietly, her gaze still focused on the ground, as if the shards of glass and piles of ash held some answer to the puzzle.

Rowena merely shook her head. Every answer seemed to ask a dozen more questions. And each new answer seemed more ominous than the last.

"So maybe it wasn't an inside job," Jeff threw the possibility out there, though his cautious tone and weary expression belied his utter lack of hope in such a fate.

His supervisor gave a heavy sigh. "I don't think we're that lucky."

"Yeah," his sigh matched her own. "Me, either."

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"Are you sure you're alright on your own?"

"Reid, I'm fine—"

"But do you need—"

"Spencer. Reid. Go. Now."

The young doctor gave a curt nod, turning to leave. He turned back again, "Just let me make sure you're home safe—"

"Reid. You need to get a new phone, and you need to get back to the others. I'm _fine_." Penelope Garcia tried to be stern, but her adoring smile gave away her true feelings. The boy wonder really could be quite endearing, whenever he was in protector-mode. "Besides, I don't think I'm going home just yet. I think I'm gonna go upstairs, hang out with Will and Nenry for a bit."

Spencer nodded in understanding—it would be several more hours before they would be allowed to see JJ again, but Will had decided to hang around, "just in case". The idea of Penelope being with Will and Henry made him feel better about abandoning them all.

Garcia pulled him into one last hug—an awkward, unstable thing, since she was still trying to readjust to life with crutches.

"Go. We'll be fine. I'll take care of the godson until you get back."

He left before he could change his mind again.

* * *

"_Go, gentleman, every man unto his charge__  
__Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls…__  
__March on, join bravely, let us to't pell-mell__  
__If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell."_

_~William Shakespeare, Richard III._


	15. Questions, Questions, and More Questions

**Questions, Questions, and More Questions**

"_Lots of things are mysteries. But that doesn't mean there isn't an answer to them."__  
__~Mark Haddon__._

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"You should've picked a bigger room," Judith Eden kept her tone low, so that only Jack Dawson could hear her.

He had to nod in agreement, glancing around the temporary headquarters—it was the perfect size for a break room for the four Flying J's, but currently, it was crammed with his team, plus the BAU and O'Donnell, and the latest addition, Section Chief Mateo Cruz.

Scott O'Donnell stood in the center of the small office, hands on his hips as he began, "Obviously, this briefing is largely for Chief Cruz's benefit, but I also think now would be a good time for updates from everyone."

He glanced over at Cruz as he continued, "As of right now, here's what we know: it was a bomb. Eight casualties so far, with several other agents in critical condition. I've spoken with SSA Macaraeg, whose team is handling evidence recovery—they spoke to someone who was able to give us a clearer timeline of the event, as you can see here."

He nodded towards the wall, where the Flying J's had improvised a timeline by sticking Post-It notes onto the wall with times and descriptions. Matt Cruz gave a small smile of appreciation for their ingenuity.

O'Donnell took another deep breath, "We've also interviewed and released over a dozen of our forensic analysts—they'll be returning to the research center, to help process items found at the scene. The bomb squad thinks they may already have a narrative to piece together, but for now, I've asked them to wait until they know for sure before sharing the information with us—I don't want us going down a rabbit trail over a bad clue."

Everyone nodded in understanding.

He motioned to Jack Dawson, "Agent Dawson, if you'd be so kind as to get us up to speed on the investigation's progress."

Dawson gave a curt nod, stepping forward, arms crossed over his chest, "We've been conducting interviews as fast as we dare, and with the twenty-five other agents from D.C.—who are all still taking statements as we speak—we hope to work through the night and be finished by sometime tomorrow morning. I'm asking for everyone's indulgence in advance, because I can't promise that we're going to be very pretty or very friendly by this time tomorrow. Coffee can only do so much, you know."

There were smiles and small nods—tensions were always expected to be high in cases like this, especially when sleep was a secondary thing, but it was always nice to have a formal and witty acknowledgement of the situation.

"And so far, we've nothing suspicious to report," Dawson admitted with a sigh. "As much as I hate to say it, I don't think any of these interviews will unleash a damning confession—though they may help us catch someone in a lie."

He gave a cautious glance back to O'Donnell, "Not that they aren't completely necessary, mind you—they are. It's just the foundation work, and that's never fun nor exciting."

Rossi noted this move of politesse—Dawson had played the game a time or two, he knew how to smooth feathers before they were fully ruffled. Investigations as snarled and personal as this needed people like that—people who thought on their feet, who saw the whole picture and knew what to do to correct a situation before it even began.

O'Donnell turned to Aaron Hotchner expectantly, and the BAU Unit Chief realized that it was his turn to give a report. With a slight nod to Dawson, he quietly agreed, "So far, we haven't seen anyone acting suspiciously either. Though I'd like to add that everyone reacts differently to stress, so what could be seen as suspicious behavior in one person might seem completely normal for another. As soon as the lab and the bomb squad can give us more insight into the matter, we can put together a profile. But for now, there's too many options to narrow it down—at this point, we run the risk of pigeon-holing the investigation, which could distract us from the actual UNSUB."

Matt Cruz was watching him carefully—by now, Hotch had noted that Cruz's dark eyes had scanned the room, noting the missing BAU members, and though he hadn't asked yet, it was obvious that he was concerned about their whereabouts.

Kate Callahan started sifting through her jacket pockets, as Derek Morgan pulled his cellphone out of his back pocket—Aaron felt the familiar buzz of his own phone and immediately checked it.

It was a text from Reid.

"I've just received a text from one of my agents, Dr. Reid," he announced to the rest of the room. "He's been at the hospital with our two wounded agents, but he will be rejoining us shortly."

"JJ?" Cruz asked.

"How are they?" O'Donnell responded at the same time.

"Agent Jareau's condition is stable. She's in ICU, recovering from surgery," Hotch took a moment to glance back at Cruz, quickly explaining, "She was in one of the elevators when the blast hit—the elevator fell while she was still inside."

"Oh my God," Cruz murmured, his face filled with worry.

"She's got multiple fractures, but for the most part, the doctors expect a full recovery," Hotch remained professional, but his tone was tinged with sympathy. Finishing the rest of O'Donnell's question, he added, "Technical Analyst Garcia was released from the hospital with minor injuries, however she's staying with Jareau's family for a little while."

"We can go to her for the interview," Dawson said quietly. "No need in dragging her all the way here."

Hotch gave a grateful nod.

"Which reminds me," O'Donnell's expression became pained once more. "On your way back out the barricade, expect a storm—the press have arrived."

"Thank goodness I had my roots touched-up this weekend," Judith Eden replied, thin fingers giving an airy fluff of her dark locks.

There was a beat as most of the room stared at her in mild incomprehension (with the exception of her own team, who were by now accustomed to her flippant nature).

Instead of looking chagrined, she gave a silent huff of amusement. She didn't dare look over at Jonas—she knew his face would be a stormcloud of disapproval, and really, she didn't need that right now.

O'Donnell smoothed over the moment by continuing, "I'm sure it goes without saying, but under no circumstance should we speak to the reporters. I know this media fire isn't going to die down overnight, but we certainly aren't going to add fuel to the flames."

Everyone nodded in agreement.

O'Donnell made a dismissive gesture, signaling that the official briefing was over. Dawson moved closer to Hotch, his voice low and neutral, "As soon as your guy gets here, we'll need to interview him. Send him to Eden—she'll be in the room next to this one."

Aaron Hotchner couldn't stop himself from casting a skeptical glance towards Agent Eden, who was watching the exchange from across the room, leaning against the desk, arms crossed and mouth set in her usual knowing smirk.

Dawson noticed his obvious skepticism, but he didn't comment. He merely waited for Hotchner to respond.

"Sure thing," was the unit chief's only reply. He glanced back at his team, and they left the room.

"Agent Hotchner."

The four BAU members all turned around at the sound—Jessalyn Keller had followed them into the hallway, stopping suddenly in hesitation, one foot turned inwardly in a stance that was both child-like and delicate, accenting the thin lines of her ankles. Not for the first time, her timid and dainty movements reminded Kate Callahan of a deer.

"Nevermind," she shook her head, waving her hand as if shooing away their attention. "I just—it was nothing."

Hotch waited for a moment, giving her a chance to change her mind. She simply smiled, her big grey-green eyes shining with false nonchalance behind her glasses. She gave another dismissive flutter of her fingers, turning on the balls of her feet to return to the small office.

"Does almost everything about these people strike you as weird?" Derek Morgan asked, bluntly but not rudely.

David Rossi gave a hum of agreement. "Then again, I'm pretty sure people think the same thing about us."

"That's because we are weird," Morgan admitted easily. With one last concerned glance in the direction of Agent Keller, he clarified, "Just not _that_ weird."

"I dunno about that one, buddy," Kate Callahan's tone was laced with skepticism. She turned to walk back down the hallway, taking a beat to spare a cautious look in his direction. "You guys are pretty weird."

"'You guys'? You're one of us," Morgan returned easily as he caught up with her pace.

"Well, I'm slowly becoming one of the natives, if that's what you mean," she gave a slight shrug as they all shifted to one side of the hall, allowing another set of agents going in for interviews to pass by. "But when I first got here, I was acutely aware of your collective weirdness."

"I felt the same way when I first got here," Rossi assured her. "Then eventually, I became a part of the weirdness. It's like Stockholm Syndrome, in a way."

Aaron Hotchner gave a light little snort at the comparison. "I just continued the tradition set forth by you and Jason Gideon—so _you_ were the _originator_ of the cycle of weirdness."

"Yeah, but each group is weird in its own way," Rossi accepted the statement with an air of nonchalance. "When I returned, the BAU was all touchy-feely, let's-share-our-profiles—and that was not how we worked, back in the day. Not that I mind it now, but it was an adjustment. And then you have all the personal backstories, and friendships and…other things."

Hotch gave him a warning look. Callahan noted the look but didn't comment.

"Other things," Morgan's tone was laced with thoughtful amusement. "Like…you and Strauss?"

Callahan's eyes got wide and Hotchner didn't even try to hide his laughter.

Rossi merely raised a single eyebrow in incredulity (_you really wanna play that game, Mr. Statuesque God of Sculpted Chocolate Thunder?_). Morgan chuckled, waving away the gauntlet that his team mate had silently thrown down.

"So, do you think it was important?" Kate changed the subject. "Whatever Keller was going to tell you?"

"Not really," Hotch answered easily, and his lack of concern put the others at ease. "Obviously, I don't know her well, but she seems the type to play by the rules—"

"Oh, she is," Morgan assured him. Keller had interviewed him earlier, giving him the best picture of her personality. "Trust me, she's about as straight-laced as they come."

"Then she wouldn't withhold valuable or pertinent information," Hotch finished his thought. "I'm not even sure it was about the case—I get the feeling that if it had been, she would have told us."

"It was almost like she wanted to ask a favor," Rossi added thoughtfully.

"Maybe she wants your number, man," Morgan gave him a light pat on the shoulder.

"I don't think so," Hotch returned quickly.

"Can't love it til you try it," his friend merely shrugged. Callahan fought back a grin, shaking her head at her team member's antics.

Everyone stopped for a moment—they'd reached the main foyer, the place where they'd split off to go back to their respective posts. The air of mirth and playfulness was gone as their focus returned to the world of the case.

"Reid will be here soon," Hotch reminded them quietly—he was the closest thing to reinforcements that they would ever get on this case, and another set of keen eyes would definitely help. "As soon as we hear back from the bomb squad, we'll begin working on a profile. For now, let's plan to reconvene in an hour."

The others gave curt nods of acceptance, turning to go back to their own rooms.

David Rossi took a moment to look back down the hall—back to the now-open door of the Flying J's headquarters. Cruz and O'Donnell were already heading back to the main foyer, and the Flying J's were entering the hall again as well.

Dawson strode back to his interview room without a moment's hesitation. Jonas Shostakovich was right behind him, his longer legs pushing him further down the hall. They exchanged some brief joke, Jonas' somber features cracking into a flash of a smile as he turned to open the door to his room.

Keller and Eden were still in the doorway of the small office, their body movements as still and quiet as their words. As if she could sense his gaze, Jessalyn Keller glanced back in Rossi's direction. She gave a small, hopeful smile, as if she almost considered coming towards him, saying something. Instead, she merely turned and headed down the hall as well.

Judith Eden took a full beat to scrutinize him, her face wary with questions (_what do you want from her?_). She took one slow, backwards step, still keep her gaze locked on him. It was an almost-protective stance, as if she wasn't going to take her eyes off him until Keller was safely in her own room again. However, her attitude wasn't aggressive or hostile, merely cautious. In a way, he understood—he could admit to giving a few warning looks of his own when outsiders had seemed threatening towards or overly interested in any of his team members.

That was part of the weirdness within every group—the protectiveness, and the unique reasons behind each form.

Finally, Eden released her gaze, turning on her heel to go back to her own room. The Marine stationed outside said something to her, and her face blossomed into its usual devil-may-care grin. She retorted in a low tone, and the Marine ducked his head, as if trying to hide his laughter.

With a smile of his own, David Rossi decided he needed to learn more—about all of the Flying J's, but especially about Judith Eden.

* * *

_**Ninth Floor, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Maria Callas was cut off mid-aria by an incoming call. With a light sigh, Adelaide Macaraeg pulled off her gloves and retrieved the phone from the pocket of her forensic jumpsuit.

It was O'Donnell. She breathed a prayer for good news before answering.

Her prayer was rewarded.

"You've got your forensic analysts," he informed her. "Fifteen, to be exact. They're heading back to the lab as we speak. Have they brought the generators yet?"

"Yeah, about twenty minutes ago," she glanced down the hallway, where a pot-bellied generator hummed. Half a dozen hardy Marines had carried that sucker up nine flights of stairs, along with the heaters that now sat beside it and several sets of work lights with miles of power cords. Though she felt badly for the physical efforts required for such a feat, she was certainly grateful for the results.

"How's that heater?"

"Glorious," she assured him. "They brought two, actually."

"Well, we do like to give our guests the star treatment here at Quantico."

She gave an amused hum at that. "Yeah. Feelin' more and more like Rita Hayworth every second."

"Ah, I would have pegged you as a Jane Russell."

Mac gave an outright laugh, "I'll assume that was meant as a compliment."

"Of course." O'Donnell's tone was laced with amusement. However, he quickly resumed his usual serious air, "The generators for the lab should be up and running now, too. So there won't be much lag time between the analysts' arrival and how soon they can start processing whatever you need. You have the full lab at your disposal—all other cases are on hold until we catch this guy."

"Thank you, sir." She gave a curt nod, glancing down at her feet.

"Just trying to make sure you have everything you need—because we do need to get this guy."

"And we will. I'll let you know as soon as we learn anything else."

She hung up with a sigh, slipping her phone back into her pocket. Maria Callas returned to her aria, as if no interruption had ever occurred.

"The forensic analysts are coming back now," she informed her two team members, who gave small nods of approval, though they never looked up from their work. By now, the cart had been processed and moved to the side, and they were slowly moving away from ground zero, collecting samples and labeling small bags of evidence and carefully documenting it all with photos and notes.

Mac set her hands on her hips and leaned back, trying to ease the cramped muscles in her lower back. She rolled her head, then her shoulders, "I'm gonna take the samples from the cart and head down to the lab."

Without further ado, she headed back to the pelican cases, slipping out of her jumpsuit before grabbing the necessary samples.

Once she was gone, Jeff quietly commented, "She seems to get on well with Scott."

"Oh, god," Rowena rolled her eyes heavenward. "Do you ever stop trying to play matchmaker?"

He laughed at the accusation—because in a way, it held some truth. He often liked to kid his partner about anyone how showed any kind of interest in her, planning imaginary weddings between her and some random police officer who shared a case with them, or the man who held the elevator for her, or the woman who always gave her extra bacon on her BLT.

"It's my calling," he informed her.

"You're worse than an old widow woman, poking your nose in everybody's business."

"Well, then maybe everybody should stop having such interesting business. I'm an _investigator_, Rowena Lynette," he used her first and middle name, something he always did when he was trying to sound like her mother. "When I find something interesting, I must _investigate_ it."

She fought back a chuckle, simply shaking her head—because honestly, he did sound like her mother (an interesting feat for someone who'd never met the woman).

"Seriously, though, you couldn't ship that?"

"Oh my god, Jeff. Stop. Just stop."

"What?"

"You sound like some tweaky fan girl. Stop shipping—anything or anyone."

"You don't ship _things_, Rowena. You ship people."

"Please stop."

"If you're gonna use the terminology, you have to use it properly."

"I really don't want to hurt you, but honestly, you're making it very difficult right now."

He never even glanced up from his work. "Together they'd be…MacDonnell."

"I have to kill you now."

"It's cute. Admit it."

"With my tweezers. I will stab you with my tweezers." She gingerly placed another shard of glass into a plastic container, never slacking pace. "What's the sentencing on killing a federal agent?"

"Second or first degree?"

"Second."

"Nineteen to twenty five years. Which could also be exactly how long Mac and O'Donnell stay married."

Now Rowena finally broke, bowing her head as her whole body shook with laughter. She set down her potential murder weapon to place the back of her gloved hand against her forehead—she was still tired and not fully recovered from her motion sickness, but she'd never been truly immune to Jeff's ridiculous sense of humor in the first place.

He was laughing, too, stopping to glance up at her, his face filled with merry confusion, "Tweaky fangirl? What the hell does that even mean?"

"I don't know—I just—it fit," she tried to explain between gales of laughter. "And now I'm seriously not going to be able to look at either of them without cracking up, you asshole."

"Then my work here is done," he grinned proudly, accentuating the statement with another flash of the camera.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence as they settled back into their work.

"But really—you can see it, can't you?"

"Your death by tweezers? Absolutely."

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Do you remember where you were at eight o'clock this morning?"

"Yes. I was in the small conference room in the Behavioral Analysis suite. I was reading a police report on a kidnapping in Wyoming. Page 42 of the detective's notes."

Judith Eden glanced up from her own notes to grace Spencer Reid with a skeptical look, her dark brows lifting in amused surprise as she dryly intoned, "You know if I somehow go back and find out you were only on page 41, I'm going to name you as the bomber."

He gave a small, polite smile at the attempted levity. "I have an eidetic memory—it's hard not to add in every detail that I remember."

Her expression softened into something akin to sympathy (an odd reaction to such a remark, Spencer noted). "Alright then. Just tell me what you remember—minus the page numbers."

"I heard the explosion—it didn't really sound like a blast, not from that far away. I tried to go back to reading, but then the alarms went off. I gathered my things, went back into the bullpen—from there, we all took the northeast staircase, down to the main lobby. It was hectic, but nothing of note really happened."

"And by that, you mean you didn't see the explosion or the person who set it off."

"Right."

She took a moment to sit back, her dark eyes scrutinizing him in a way that seemed neither critical nor unsettling. After a beat, she asked, "Are you usually…this peripatetic?"

That was a slight misuse of the word's standard definition, but Spencer still understood her meaning. He looked down at his leg which was currently bobbing up and down as his heel tapped out a rapid-fire rhythm against the floor.

"I'm not exactly the stillest person," he admitted. "Though, given the current situation, I can't deny that I am more nervous than usual."

"Do I make you nervous?" Eden asked, her face impossibly neutral.

"Not at all. You remind me of my mother, actually."

Now she gave a slight grin. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment."

"It is."

"Good." She sat up, picking up her pen again. "As long as you've already worked out your Oedipal complex, we should be fine."

He had to smile at the quip. Honestly, he wasn't even sure why Agent Eden reminded him of his mother—her dark features were nothing like Diana Reid's blonde hair and blue eyes. Perhaps it was her height, her physical bearing, from the line of her shoulders to set of her head when she asked a question.

"So, you saw nothing…out of the ordinary? Nothing that seemed amiss or out of place that morning?" She returned to the matter at hand.

"No," Reid answered simply, his mind spinning through the details of his morning. "Honestly, there was nothing to distinguish it from any other morning—until the alarms went off."

Eden nodded in understanding, shifting slightly in her seat. "I understand that one of your friends was severely injured. I know she's stable now, but I am sorry for the stress you still feel about the whole situation."

_The stress you still feel_. Not _the stress you must fee_l. An interesting change in the standard syntax. Of course, she wasn't making an assumption—Spencer knew his worry was evident to everyone around him. For some reason, he appreciated her directness in acknowledging it.

"Thank you," he returned softly, glancing down at his hands.

"She's safe now. Even if something happens, she's surrounded by a competent staff of surgeons and specialists," Eden's tone matched his own, low and gentle. She reached out, lightly patting the tabletop in a quick sign of solidarity. "It's all going to be alright. I know, it doesn't always feel that way, but it is, even when it isn't."

He looked up again, his face quirking into a questioning look—her words were in direct opposition to the ones he'd given to Penelope earlier that day (_it is until it isn't_), but for some reason, he understood them in a way that he hadn't before.

_It's OK, even when it isn't._

Yes, JJ was still in ICU, and this case was still swirling with uncertainty and fear, but hadn't they been here before? Hadn't they been here, and returned to the land where everything truly was OK—something even _better_ than OK?

Judith Eden gave a knowing grin—she could mark the exact instant that her words had clicked in Spencer Reid's brain.

"I know," she leaned forward, adopting a playfully conspiratorial air. "I should have been a philosopher. Or, at the very least, a self-help guru. Could've had my own TV show by now."

She sat back again, making a grand gesture around the room, "Instead, I'm here, in the fabulous confines of the Academy, asking people the same ten questions at forty-minute intervals. God above, how'd I get so lucky?"

Though her words were spoken in utter jest, there was a light in her eyes that told her secret—she truly loved where she was and what she did.

Lucky. Suddenly, Spencer Reid felt very, very lucky. Twice, he'd faced the possibility of losing a close friend—and twice, his friends had pulled through. Just as they had, many times before. Just as he had, many times before.

Yes. Lucky, indeed.

* * *

"_What if we are all unique and the universe loves us all equally, so much so that it bends over backwards across the centuries for each and every one of us, and sometimes, we are just lucky enough to see it?"_

_~Akiva Goldsman._


	16. Two Kinds of Trouble

**Two Kinds of Trouble**

"_We have to prepare for the worst, and the worst is war."  
~__Bernard Kouchner__._

* * *

_***Author's Note: Merci beaucoup for all the wonderful reviews, adds, faves, and follows so far! Also, going back over my research, I realized the crime lab at Quantico is actually stand alone-but for the purposes of this story, can we all just pretend that it's part of the main building (mainly because I'm too lazy to go back and rewrite the part of the previous chapter in which Mac requests generators for the lab)? Please?***_

* * *

_**FBI Headquarters. Washington, D.C.**__  
_

"At this time we would like to release a brief statement to allay the fears and speculations circling the incident at the FBI complex in Quantico, Virginia. I will not be answering any questions at this time."

Colton P. Heston, Assistant Director of the Office of Public Affairs, glanced down at the statement—it wasn't much, but he and several staffers had worked on it for almost an hour, deciding and re-deciding what to say, bouncing those thoughts and ideas back to the Director's office, keeping in touch with the Quantico SAC and generally keeping all the necessary positions in the loop for every change.

The flash and pop of cameras continued as he read the statement, "At approximately eight o'clock this morning, an explosion occurred at the FBI Training Division at Quantico. There are a reported eight fatalities, with eleven agents in critical condition. We are not releasing names or any identifying information until we have ensured that all families have been notified. At this time, we are working on a reconstruction of the event, but we have yet to confirm how or why the explosion occurred. We do not believe this to be an act of terrorism, but we are considering all possibilities. We are continuing to investigate, and have nothing further to provide at this time. Thank you."

Despite his declaration that he would not answer any questions, the room still erupted in a flurry of shouted queries. He merely turned and walked away.

"Sir," his assistant, Lyle Bard, held out his cellphone. "O'Donnell on the phone, as you asked."

Heston gave a curt nod of approval, handing off his statement to Bard in exchange for the phone. "O'Donnell, it's Heston. I've just given the statement—I can't say that it's going to make anything easier for you, but we didn't have much choice."

"Can't say that I disagree," O'Donnell replied. And it was true—it had been almost two years since the whole debacle with John Curtis, but in the grand scheme of things, two years wasn't that long ago. They'd gotten egg on their face for that—especially when Curtis killed an FBI section chief right under the noses of one of their best units. Now the press was clamoring for answers, and the Bureau didn't have the luxury of hiding behind closed doors. The American public had to see them as capable, open, and trustworthy, and this was long past the point of simply keeping it quiet. They had to appear transparent, without making themselves too vulnerable to another attack or giving away any information that could tip their hand to whoever was behind this. Heston's head was already swimming at the thought of how many weeks he'd have to spend at the press podium, denying and clarifying and justifying—as the official spokesperson for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, it'd be his face on this whole disaster. Of course, that was his job, and it was his way of protecting his brothers and sisters of the badge—he was the face that shielded people like Scott O'Donnell from unwarranted and unwanted public scrutiny. They all made sacrifices to serve their country; this was his.

"I apologize in advance if this sends more vultures flocking to your door," Heston rounded the corner, back into the suite that housed the Office of Public Affairs.

"Ah, we've got the Marines," O'Donnell assured him. With a hint of amusement, he wondered, "You think I could declare the whole place a disaster zone and have them all carted back into the city?"

"Well, it would be for their own safety, of course," Heston followed the line of humorous reasoning.

"And it damn sure would make the place a whole lot quieter," O'Donnell added. He gave a light sigh, "Thanks anyways, Heston. I appreciate all that you've done for us so far."

"Anytime. Now focus on finding that sick son of bitch—the sooner I can walk back in there and tell them that we've got him, the sooner this all goes away, for everyone."

"I hate to break it to ya, Hest, but this ain't going away that easily—even after we catch him, there'll be questions."

"Let me live in my happy little bubble for a little while longer, won't you?"

O'Donnell merely gave a wry chuckle.

"Seriously, though—if any of those reporters start giving you a problem direct them to me. That's my job. I'll handle it."

"Sure thing. Thanks again."

"You're welcome. And happy hunting."

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Spencer Reid's phone interrupted SSA Eden in mid-sentence.

"I'm sorry," he quickly pulled it out of his pants pocket, frowning at the unfamiliar number. He answered anyways, "This is Dr. Reid."

"Dr. Reid, it's Charlotte, from the Sociology department at George Washington—we were concerned because you were scheduled for a guest lecture at 2pm, and we haven't heard from you—"

"It's been a bit hectic here, Charlotte—I apologize, but I haven't even thought about it—"

"Are you saying that you will not be giving your lecture today?"

"Excuse me, Charlotte, but are you following the news?" Spencer spoke quickly, his irritation immediately flashing. Her pushy tone was grating his nerves.

"Um, yes, but—"

"Then you are aware of what is happening at the FBI right now." It wasn't a question, but more of a challenge.

"Well, yes, of course—"

"Then I think reason would dictate that I will not be attending the lecture today, nor any day in the near future."

"When can we reschedule your—"

"I'm sorry, Charlotte, but now is not the appropriate time to consider such a question. If you'll excuse me, I need to focus on more important matters. Have a good day." He hung up the phone, pushing down another wave of anger at this woman's presumption—the world was falling down around him, and she expected him to be giving a lecture on _basic_ criminology?

"Cutting class, Doctor?" Eden asked quietly, though she offered a playful smile as well.

"I was supposed to give a lecture at two o'clock this afternoon," he gave a frustrated sigh. He cast his hands about helplessly, still at a loss over Charlotte's thick-headed behavior, "And she saw the news, so she has at least _some_ clue what we're dealing with here—why even bother calling? Shouldn't it be obvious?"

"Most people are far too much occupied with themselves," Eden intoned.

"Nietzsche," Reid looked up, his eyes filled with a new-found admiration.

"That's not the whole quote, but really, it's the only part that's important," she gave a demure shrug, returning to her notepad. "Now just a few more questions—and before you pull out that little defiant streak you just showed to poor Charlotte, let me remind you that I'm asking everyone the exact same questions."

He gave a sheepish smile at the quip, which only made Eden's grin widen in turn.

"Don't worry. She deserved it. Now, let's see….two more questions, and I'll have you back where you belong."

* * *

"Glad you decided to join us, doctor," was Rossi's first comment upon Reid's arrival back into the fold. Despite his droll tone, he reached out to give the younger man's shoulder an affectionate pat (_I'm glad you're here and you're OK, kid_).

Hotch had text them all to reconvene in the main foyer, once he'd known that Reid was back.

"How's Penelope doing?" Morgan's voice was tight with concern.

"She's OK. Already on crutches." Reid sensed that his friend was more concerned with Garcia's emotional state, so he added, "She was back to her usual self and getting ready to spend time with Henry, so…."

"So she's more than OK," Morgan gave a curt nod of approval. Babygirl was with her beloved Nenry, she'd be just fine—if he had to guess, by now they were probably alarming the nurses with their antics.

"What about JJ?" Callahan asked quietly.

Now Reid's face fell. "She's…she's gonna make it, but it's bad. It's going to take a while for her to fully heal."

Callahan made a small noise of sympathy.

There was a slight commotion at the front entrance, and they all instinctively turned to see what it was.

David Rossi's face split into a smile, "Well, look what the cat dragged it."

Rowena Lewis and Jeff Masterson were entering the foyer, with their supervisor. Their faces lit up whenever they spotted the BAU.

"David Rossi, you dear old man," Rowena's tone was laced with playful taunting as she made her way to him. "Jeff here was worried sick about you."

"But you knew better," he returned, giving her a hug.

"Of course," her eyes twinkled mischievously, and he remembered why they'd clicked so easily in Nairobi—they shared the same sense of humor, the same mixture of snark and dryness with just the right dash of risqué.

She stepped back so that Jeff and Rossi could exchange a warm handshake.

Jeff turned back to their supervisor, "This is SSA Adelaide Macaraeg, our unit chief—"

"Call me Mac," she offered with a smile as they shook hands.

"I'm David Rossi."

There was a round of introductions as they met the rest of the BAU. Derek Morgan tried to reconcile what he saw with what he'd imagined, based on Reid's stories from the ANAM case—if she wasn't smiling, Rowena Lewis looked like the kind of person who'd rather punch you in the face than say good morning (however, when she did smile, she seemed almost sweet, in a complete juxtaposition to her natural features), and Jeff Masterson was big enough to make Morgan feel small, with a distinctly former-cop air, which did not line up with the stories of the goofy-yet-sensitive guy that Reid had described. Mac's own tough features complimented her team's—she reminded Derek of a teacher he'd had in high-school, who seemed to make a life's work out of shooting disapproving glances at anyone and everyone. However, like Rowena, Mac was quick to smile, and that smile changed his initial impression of her.

However, Reid had been spot-on about one part—Rowena Lewis _did_ bear a physical resemblance to Emily Prentiss, even down to the way she stood, legs apart, hands tucked into the front pockets of her jeans.

"We're taking a break to grab a late lunch," Rowena jerked her head in the direction of the mess hall. "Wanna join?"

Everyone turned to look at Hotch—the hectic pace of the morning hadn't allowed for a lunch break, and suddenly everyone's stomach was reminded of exactly how empty it was.

Hotch gave a nod of agreement. "We could use a break, too."

The mess hall was already filled with agents, but they were able to find a table large enough to accommodate both teams.

"So, how long have you been with Evidence Recovery and Response?" Hotchner asked Macaraeg, trying to make polite conversation without seeming overly-interested (though he knew that she hadn't been the unit chief during the Nairobi case, because he'd met the former chief when they'd stopped in New York for the Joint Terrorism Task Force meeting).

Macaraeg's amber eyes flicked up to the ceiling as she tried to remember, "Ah…three weeks, going on four."

"Helluva way to start the job," Rossi commented.

She gave a light shrug, "I was in crisis negotiation before this, so finding fingerprints isn't nearly as fast-paced as the work I'm used to doing—even on a case like this."

"So, do you like the adjustment?" Callahan asked, taking a sip of her water.

"Yeah, actually," Mac gave a small smile. "Like I said, it's a change of pace, but a good change. After a while, you start looking at your losses more than your wins, and that's when it's time to find something else. I like the people, I like the work—nothing much to complain about, is there?"

She began setting aside the strips of carrot from her mixed salad. Rossi gave the greens a doleful glance, "That's not all you're gonna eat, is it?"

She continued her task, stopping momentarily to jab a fork in the direction of Rossi's plate, "Look, I'm not gonna judge you for that mound of diabetes you've got over there, so leave my salad alone, thank you very much."

He laughed at the retort, suddenly realizing that she must fit in quite nicely with her other two team members.

At the other end of the table, Derek Morgan was still piecing together the puzzle of Lewis and Masterson. So far, he'd learned that Rowena got motion sickness very easily (but only on planes—boats and trains never bothered her), that Jeff was former Military, that they'd been partners for almost as long as Morgan had been in the BAU, and that Rowena shared a similar adoration for Emily Prentiss.

Now he was beginning to see all the ways in which she was not like Emily—her sense of humor was dry and often dark, like Emily's, but hers was tinged with something naughtier, much like Penelope's.

Penelope. He wanted to call her, but he knew that she didn't have her phone. He could've kicked Reid for not going to get Garcia a new phone as well, so that they could keep in touch with her. Granted, if it were an emergency, he could reach her through Will, but that wasn't the same as merely calling to exchange some sexy, witty banter and then quietly ask if she was really alright.

He thought again of her bloody knees and scratched hands, and he had to duck his head to pull away from the images. His foxy warrior woman had survived a lot worse, yet the smallest scratch was enough to make him upset—she should be completely insulated from harm, completely untouchable.

_Untouchable_. Was that how he saw her now? The idea struck him, and he quietly tried to unravel his own psyche. It was an interesting choice of word—did it also apply to other aspects of his view of her?

What had made her so untouchable? What had she been before? When did the shift change?

"Spencer told us that you had your own little adventure this morning," Rowena's warm voice brought him back to the conversation at hand. Her hazel eyes were dancing as she took another bite of her panini.

"Yeah," he sat back, quickly pushing away his inner thoughts. "All I can say is thank goodness for college football—I don't think I've sprinted like that in a while."

"Not even while chasing down bad guys?"

"That's different."

"How so?" Rowena's harsh brows dipped downward in curious questioning.

"There's…adrenaline, and anger, I guess—anger that the guy's getting away, anger that you let him get away, you know? But with this…it was just fear. You're afraid it's too late, or that she's just completely gone and you have no idea where. There's adrenaline behind that, too, but it's just…different." He took a moment to search for the right words to describe it. Then, he decided, "With the anger, you don't even have to think about moving. With the fear, it takes all you've got to keep moving."

Rowena and Jeff gave hums of understanding.

"Fear is a very powerful thing," Rowena agreed, and something at the edges of her tone quietly informed Derek Morgan that she knew this from firsthand experience. However, she quickly changed the subject by sending another warm smile Spencer's way, "I'm glad you're back in action, Dr. Reid. It'll be nice, getting to work with all of our pals from the BAU again."

A few seats away, Aaron Hotchner merely tilted his head downward, eyebrows raising (_adorably delicious, remember?_).

Spencer wished he was close enough to kick Hotch under the table. It had been over a year since Rowena had used those words to describe Spencer Reid, but it didn't make Hotch's teasing any easier to bear—especially since Reid _knew_ that Rossi would soon join the chorus as well.

Hotch returned to his plate with a smirk. Spencer fought the urge to throw a piece of pizza at him.

Unfortunately, Derek Morgan saw this exchange—and unfortunately, he understood both men well enough to get the gist of their silent conversation. He turned back to Spencer with a sudden smile, the gleeful glint unmistakable in his dark eyes.

Now Reid really wished he could kick Hotch.

Mac and Rossi were discussing the finer points of hostage negotiation when her cellphone rang. She answered, turning away slightly, "Macaraeg."

Her face sobered and she flittered around, "Wait—ah, hold on."

She glanced back at the other agents at the table, "Anyone got a pen?"

Rossi produced his from his jacket pocket, which she gratefully took, returning to her phone conversation, "OK, tell me again."

She began scratching out notes on a napkin, some odd form of shorthand that was completely unreadable (because honestly, Rossi did try to read it).

"Thanks so much—lemme know if anything else pops up," Mac ended the call and tucked the phone back into her jacket pocket. With a heavy sigh, she returned to her salad, glancing at the napkin again as she announced, "That was the lab. We've found our IED."

The entire table fell silent at the pronouncement. Mac looked up, as if surprised by the sudden reaction.

"Was it the glass pieces?" Rowena guessed.

Mac nodded, taking a second to glance around at the rest of the faces. "I'm not sure…how much everyone else knows, and I don't want to rehash—"

"O'Donnell hasn't told us anything," Hotch answered. "He wanted to wait until you had something concrete."

"Ah," she gave a slight nod of understanding. "Well, we definitely have something concrete. At ground zero, we found the mail cart, which was covered in a powdery substance. Then we found bits of glass beneath the cart—the glass was coated in some kind of powder as well."

She picked up the napkin again, "Acetone, hydrogen peroxide, and sulfuric acid, to be exact."

"Holy hell," Jeff Masterson's mind quickly pieced together the recipe. "TATP?"

Lewis' eyes widened, her face losing its usual cheerful demeanor.

Mac nodded, explaining for the rest of the table, "Triacetone triperoxide, or TATP, is highly explosive and highly volatile—its street name is Mother of Satan, and it comes by it honest."

"Anyone could make it," Rowena added, her voice low with fear (this certainly wasn't going to make finding their UNSUB any easier).

Macaraeg returned to her salad with a shake of her head, "Which just does not make sense."

"Why?" Rossi asked curiously.

"Because, of all the IEDs you could make in your kitchen, this is one of the most dangerous—which, in turn makes it one of the most complex, in a way—but it's also one of the most unstable. With so many variables at play here, it's one of the worst choices. Whoever sent it is lucky that it didn't blow up in his own face." She sat back slightly, dropping her fork into her plate with a careless air as she turned fully to Rossi, "That's another thing—there's no way this thing was actually mailed. Have you seen the way postal workers toss those packages around? I mean, I'm all for miracles and luck and all that jazz, but it's just _impossible_ that thing could have survived all of that without going off."

"So what you're saying is that even if it was disguised as a package, it had to have been put together inside the building," Hotch surmised.

"But that still doesn't make sense," Mac frowned. "I mean, why would you send a bomb to your own office?"

"Why not?" Hotch's tone was neutral and quick. "Sometimes it's easier to ask the more obvious questions first."

Rowena's face scrunched in confusion, "So…you're saying the question is why wouldn't you send a bomb to yourself?"

"You wouldn't send a bomb to yourself if survival was a priority," Spencer said slowly, the wheels of his mind gathering momentum. "Or if you knew that it wouldn't actually reach its supposed-intended target."

"What?" That last part muddled Rowena's brain.

"It makes perfect sense," Spencer Reid picked up speed, hands moving about as he explained. "If you knew the bomb would explode before it ever reached you—that the statistical probability of it even being anywhere near you was low enough to make the risk worth the potential reward—then why not send it to yourself? It also automatically eliminates you for the suspect pool, thereby providing a double-benefit."

"Wait," Jeff crossed his arms over his chest, brow furrowed in incredulity. "You're thinking this guy actually mailed himself a bomb, just so people wouldn't think he's the bomber?"

"Helluva risk," Mac agreed.

"This guy's building a bomb inside the Federal Bureau of Investigation—he's way past the point of worrying about the risk," Rossi pointed out.

"Besides, it proves just how smart he is," Callahan tilted her head forward in agreement. "I mean, if he can make the most unstable cocktail there is—while _inside_ the Federal Bureau of Investigation—then he obviously felt pretty invincible."

"Maybe it's not about risk at all," Morgan motioned towards Callahan slightly, picking up her train of thought. "If he thinks he's invincible, then there is no risk. He's too smart, too special to not survive."

"God complex?" Spencer contemplated that particular angle. "We've seen it before in mission-oriented UNSUBs, but he could also tip to the other side of the scale. He may just be doing it for the fame—then survival isn't important either, because he'll live on through his notoriety."

"If he's doing it for the attention, we should have received some kind of communication by now," Morgan pointed out.

"Someone called the press," Hotch reminded him. Then he held up his hands, halting the conversation, "We need to have an in-depth look at the findings before we start trying to build a profile, much less a theory of the crime itself."

Mac was already on her feet, wadding up the napkin and dissolving it in her water glass, so that no one else could read her notes (though Rossi could have told her that was a completely unnecessary move—her handwriting was illegible). "I need to let O'Donnell know of our latest development."

"And we need to focus on putting together a profile," Hotch glanced at the rest of the BAU, who all nodded in agreement. He rose to his feet as well, "I'll go with you—O'Donnell's going to want to go over details, and I'd like to hear them again myself."

"Finish your lunch," Mac ordered her team members, giving Jeff a quick pat on the shoulder as she headed out.

"She's fun," Rossi decreed, after she was out of earshot.

"She's a trooper," Jeff watched her leave the mess hall. "She was supposed to be on vacation this week—going to see her daughter graduate from college in Wisconsin. Just happened to be in the office when the call came in."

"And she wouldn't just pin it off on you two," Rossi surmised, his tone etched with a new level of respect for SSA Macaraeg.

Jeff shook his head. "I don't know her well, but I know her well enough to know she's not that kind of leader. She's a general, not a king."

Rossi understood the comparison—generals went to war with their soldiers, kings simply sent their soldiers to fight wars for them.

"She sounds a lot like our chief," Morgan said quietly, glancing over at Rossi for affirmation. It was true—that was just the sort of thing that Aaron Hotchner would do.

"I can see that," Rowena agreed, crunching on the last bite of her pickle. "Aaron's definitely got that whole valiant knight vibe going on."

"Aaron?" Morgan was surprised by her use of Hotch's first name.

She blushed slightly, "Well, it's just—that's what Emily calls him, sometimes."

"Emily?" Now Derek Morgan was thoroughly intrigued.

Rowena Lewis suddenly realized that she'd given too much away, "It's just—yeah. I mean, Emily and I really hit it off in Nairobi. So we keep in touch. It's not like we talk about you guys obsessively, but when she does mention the BAU, she tends to use first names."

That was a lie, and Derek Morgan knew it. He wasn't even sure that he could remember a single time in which Emily referred to Hotch by his first name. However, he kept his thoughts to himself.

David Rossi saved the day with a smug smirk, "So you and Emily are talking about us, huh?"

"Not obsessively," she reminded him.

"Of course not." He shrugged with a theatrical nonchalance that belied the opposite.

"Alright, I confess—I'm madly in love with you, David Rossi," Rowena gave a dramatic sigh, as if caving to intense torture. "I beg Emily to tell me every detail of your life, I read all of Jeff's books, over and over again—"

"You have all of Rossi's books?" Callahan turned to Jeff with sudden curiosity.

"How did I get pulled into the crosshairs?" Jeff looked around helplessly.

"The man has good taste in literature," Rossi spared a warning glance at Callahan, who had seemed neither impressed nor thrilled by the idea of someone owning all his works.

Rowena reached across the table, her fingers clasping his wrist as her voice took on a fevered pitch, "Please, just please say you love me back. I'll die without you."

Morgan was laughing now, and Rowena's expression quirked into one of mischievous knowing, "Yeah, that last line was a little too over the top, wasn't it?"

"Just barely," Morgan assured her through his chuckles. "But the rest was golden."

"I meant every word," she winked in Rossi's direction, and he merely laughed in response. He'd forgotten how intense she could be, at times—there were moments during the ANAM case when she'd been absolutely incorrigible, which had only solidified their friendship.

It wasn't until they were leaving the mess hall that he lightly pulled her aside to ask, "So how much do you know about Emily and Aaron?"

She took a beat to read his facial expressions, trying to determine if he actually knew or if he'd just made a clever guess.

"I know enough," was the only response she gave.

He nodded in approval. "What about Jeff?"

She shook her head. "I got the impression it was something that Emily didn't exactly want to share with the world—which makes me feel like an ass for almost saying something earlier—"

"It'll be OK," Rossi waved away her chagrin. Then with another smile, he added, "I guess I should say welcome to the inside loop, then."

She grinned, too, which only made his smile widen in return—here was a woman built for keeping secrets.

"So you and Reid…_bumped_ into each other?" He changed the subject easily as they walked to catch up to the rest of the group, who were heading back to the main entrance.

She laughed, "That isn't code for something, Rossi. That's just what happened."

"I didn't say that it was."

"Your tone implied it, though."

"And did you enjoy your brief collision with the adorably delicious young doctor?" He said his words carefully, enunciating each syllable to heighten their meaning.

"Oh my god," she snorted, rolling her eyes. "I had completely forgotten about that."

"I haven't."

"Of _course_ you haven't," she shook her head with a good-natured sigh. Then her eyes gleamed like the cat that ate the canary, "But yes, for the record—I enjoyed it immensely."

"Just as I suspected," he decreed with a sly grin of his own. "Just don't distract the boy too much—we do have a case to solve."

"Aw, Rossi, you're really limiting my options, here."

"A tiger in a cage, you are."

"Takes one to know one."

"True. I'm just better at hiding my stripes."

"Can't change these stripes, baby—but I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours." She wagged her eyebrows suggestively, which only made him laugh harder.

"What's so funny?" Derek Morgan asked as they approached.

"You probably don't want to know," Jeff informed him.

"Rowena was just sharing some life philosophy with me," Rossi waved away the question.

"You definitely don't want to know," Jeff amended his previous statement.

Derek Morgan's wicked grin said that he had a good idea of the conversation's topic—and he definitely did want to know more.

"I think we're gonna get along just fine," he told Rowena Lewis.

"Well I certainly hope so," she flashed a winning smile.

Oh, trouble. That woman was trouble indeed.

* * *

"And you're sure about this?" Scott O'Donnell set his hands on his hips, tilting his head towards Adelaide Macaraeg to denote the severity of the situation.

"I am," she gave a curt nod, mimicking his stance. She had been quick, concise, at times a bit blunt in her delivery of the facts, but throughout it all, there was a sense of honesty and conviction in her words—her certainty was enough for O'Donnell.

However, O'Donnell still cast a quick glance at Dawson and Hotchner, who both gave grave nods of agreement—they trusted the lab's results and Mac's subsequent diagnosis. Sometimes turning data like this into a theory of the crime was closer to reading tea leaves than providing a fact-based reconstruction, but Macaraeg had kept her suppositions down to what could eventually be proven. No grand theories, no over-reaching narratives, just "here's what ya got, and here's what it means".

"So we're definitely subscribing to the inside-man angle," Dawson stated for the record, crossing his arms over his chest as he rocked back onto his heels.

"There's really no other possibility—not with this particular compound," Mac insisted.

"So what's your theory, exactly?" Hotch asked quietly.

Mac made a slight frown as she considered the question. She shifted, crossing her arms over her chest as she glanced down at the floor. "Well, obviously, I'm not a profiler, and I cannot speak to this particular person's M.O. just yet, but if I were going to do something like this, here's how I'd do it. I'd take each ingredient down to the mailroom, still separated—I cannot stress enough just how unstable TATP is. Friction, change in temperature, anything, can set this stuff off. I'd mix it there, place the container into the package, and leave it with the rest of the mail. Then I'd get the hell out of there. Now, if I were a bit more daring, I might mix it elsewhere and walk it to the mailroom, but either way, I wouldn't bring it through the front door, already put together."

"It wouldn't pass security scans," Hotch agreed.

"Unless someone at the scan desk was also on the inside," O'Donnell pointed out.

"Lone bomber seems more plausible than a network," Mac tilted her head in Hotch's direction, as if throwing her hat into his ring.

"What floor is the mailroom on?" Dawson asked, directing his question at O'Donnell.

The SAC gave a helpless gesture with his hands, "I honestly couldn't say—I think it's on one of the basement levels. I've never been in there, never needed to be in there—all of our outgoing and incoming mail is picked up and dropped off by the interns or the clerks."

"I'll check with Roza," Dawson assured him. "And I'll get her to find the mail logs—see if there's anything to go on from those as well."

Dawson turned back to Macaraeg, "What do you think caused the explosion?"

Now her eyebrows shot up, thin lips pressing into an even thinner line. "Mary Weiss, the one we interviewed earlier today—she mentioned hearing some kind of collision, like someone running into the mail cart, or the cart hitting something equally dense. Our best guess is that whatever that was, it was a heavy enough impact to disturb the contents enough to create the chemical reaction needed for an explosion."

"So…did our guy really think his package would make it to its intended target?" O'Donnell asked, glancing over at Aaron Hotchner, the only behavioral analyst in the room.

"Perhaps." Hotch couldn't commit to a more definite answer. "I doubt he was expecting the delivery boy to literally run into someone."

"There's something else that deserves mentioning," Mac held up her hand in a cautionary gesture. "Obviously, we haven't finished processing the scene—but so far, we've yet to find any kind of detonation apparatus."

"Lay terms, please," Dawson requested dryly.

"No wires, no cellphone, no timer—nothing to make the boom go boom at a certain time. TATP was used in the London subway bombings back in 2005, and even then, they used detonators. Yes, I said it was highly unstable, but if our guy was trying to hit a specific target, wouldn't he at least plan for it to reach the target without blowing up? He'd have to create some kind of trigger or detonator in order for that to happen."

"So, he could have sent it, just to blow up—no particular target?" O'Donnell clarified, and Mac gave a curt nod. He turned to Hotch, "How's that gonna affect your profile?"

"Maybe a little, maybe a lot," Hotch hated to be so vague, but it was true. "Victimology plays a huge role in determining the motivation of an UNSUB. For now, I'd like to pursue this based on what we do have—which is no detonator, which points to Macaraeg's theory of a general attack. This UNSUB is attacking the FBI in general, not a unit or person in particular."

"We need to get ahold of those mail logs," Jack Dawson reiterated.

O'Donnell nodded in agreement. He lightly reached out to tap Mac's arm, "You'll let us know if you find anything else?"

"Absolutely," she offered a sharp smile. Hotch noticed how she recoiled from the simple touch, even though her skin was protected by at least two thick layers of clothing.

The informal meeting was adjourned, and Mac and Hotch headed back to their teams.

"Not much to go on, for your profile," she commented, her tone neutral and noncommittal.

"We've built profiles with less," he assured her.

"I'm not saying I doubt your team," she explained. "I'm just saying I don't envy you guys, that's all."

"A wise decision," he offered a small smile. "Though I can't say I envy your job, either."

She grinned as well. "I think once this is all said and done, there'll be no one left to envy on this case."

He gave a grim sigh of agreement. "No, I suppose not."

* * *

"_Cannon to right of them,_

_Cannon to left of them,_

_Cannon in front of them_

_Volleyed and thundered;_

_Stormed at with shot and shell,_

_Boldly they rode and well,_

_Into the jaws of Death,_

_Into the mouth of hell."_

_~Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Charge of the Light Brigade._


	17. Start the Clock

**Start the Clock**

"_Mother and daughter got on very well indeed, with a deep affection founded on almost complete misunderstanding."__  
__~Mary Stewart__._

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

By the next time visitation rolled around, Sandy Jareau had joined the group. She was the first person through the door, perching on the side of JJ's bed to wrap her into a gentle hug. JJ couldn't stop the tears from coming as the familiar comforting warmth of her mother enfolded her.

"How're you feeling, baby?" Sandy asked quietly, her own voice etched with tears.

"I'm OK, Momma," JJ assured her, though the tiny helplessness of her tone didn't back that statement up. Sandy remembered the last time her daughter had sounded so broken—when she'd told her about the miscarriage, the loss of the child that she and Will had wanted for so long.

Henry hesitated at the foot of the bed, unsure of what do to, upon seeing two of the strongest women in his life in tears. Will was behind him, lightly rubbing his shoulders in reassurance. His dad's hands were big and strong and sheltering, like shields, and Henry felt safe again.

"C'mere, you," his mommy reached for him, a small smile on her face. Daddy lifted him on to the bed again, this time on the other side, between Grandma and Mama.

JJ wrapped her uninjured arm around Henry's shoulders, lightly kissing the top of his blond head.

"I wasn't sure you'd even be awake by now," Sandy admitted, glancing over at the IV. "But then the nurses informed me that you raised quite a racket until they promised to wake you up in time for the next visitation round."

JJ didn't even try to look remorseful. "I can rest in-between."

Sandy gave a soft smile, "You sound like your father."

Her daughter smiled at the compliment.

"So," Penelope gingerly interrupted the moment. "We've got news on Matt Cruz."

"You do?" JJ sat up slightly, her heart's pendulum swinging between fear and hope.

"He's OK, JJ," Will assured her.

Penelope nodded in agreement, "Apparently, he was in D.C. for a Senate hearing. He's back at Quantico now, helping with the case."

"Oh, thank goodness," JJ's shoulders deflated with relief.

"Everyone's safe and accounted for," Will reiterated, sitting on the edge of the bed to give her hip another reassuring pat. "Now you can relax and focus on getting better."

"Easier said than done," his wife admitted, leaning back against the pillows. "I have the world's worst headache."

"Should I call the nurse back in?" Sandy was reaching for the call button.

"No, Mom, it's fine—I'll let them know whenever you leave."

"Jennifer, you have suffered a major trauma. Your eye socket has been rewired together, you can't—"

"_Mom_," JJ's one visible eye widened in panic, her right hand immediately going up to Henry's ear, as if to shield him from the information.

"JJ, the boy's not blind. He can see that you're hurt," Sandy returned, though her tone was tinged with regret. Henry's eyes were wide with a mixture of curiosity and fear as he watched the volley between his mother and his grandmother, very aware of the tension zinging between them.

"You need to rest," Will was on his feet again, letting his expression do the rest of the talking—Sandy understood that it was definitely pointed at her, and that he was not appreciative of her current effect on his wife. "C'mon, Henry, give Mama a kiss."

His son dutifully did as he was told, sliding off the side of the bed to retreat back to Aunt Nelope's side (by now, Aunt Nelope was feeling sufficiently awkward, witnessing this whole exchange).

"We're gonna go home and get some rest ourselves," Will assured his wife, leaning in to give her a kiss as well. She gave a small nod of agreement, her hand finding his and giving it another quick squeeze of reassurance.

"I'm sorry, I'm just—I'm glad you're safe," Sandy kissed the top of her daughter's head. JJ merely nodded, choking back another fresh round of tears—as much as her mother had annoyed her, she truly did understand that she was coming from a place of loving concern.

The left side of her face was beginning to radiate with pain again, and she knew that she needed to take her mother's advice and call in the nurse (though she'd wait until Sandy was gone, rather than openly admit her mother was right—it's ridiculous how our parents can make us feel like children at any age, and we cannot help ourselves from reacting in the most childishly stubborn of ways).

"What about you?" She asked Penelope, turning her focus to the people around her rather than the pain within.

Will glanced over at Penelope, "I was hoping Aunt Nelope would come stay with us for a little while. Just so we know she's OK."

Penelope brightened at the offer—Henry's cheer of delight certainly helped as well.

"Well, I suppose I could spare a few hours to curl up with my favorite snuggle bunny," Penelope admitted with a grin, tweaking Henry's nose.

"And we can make sure she stays off her feet," Sandy agreed, giving Penelope a knowing look.

JJ smiled at the idea of Penelope giving her mother hell. She did feel a twinge of pity for her husband, whose quiet world was certainly about to be destroyed for the next few hours. However, whenever she glanced over at him, he gave a conspiratorial wink (_I've got this, darlin'_).

She wasn't sure she could love him more in that little moment.

_I love you_, she mouthed the words. He silently repeated them back.

This time, when the drugs kicked back into her system, she didn't dream at all.

* * *

_**Mobile Command Center. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"May I speak to Benjamin Fuller, please?"

"This is he."

"Agent Fuller, this is Technical Analyst Sura Roza—where are you right now?"

"I'm…I'm inside the Academy, awaiting a preliminary questioning."

"My records don't have you clocking in this morning."

"I was running late. I was on my way into the lobby when it happened—I rushed back outside with everyone else."

"Well, I'm glad you're safe. Thank you, Agent Fuller."

Sura Roza gave a heavy sigh as she removed another name from her call list. The other two analysts had left the van (one for lunch at Quantico, the other for a quick smoke break), and she was finally able to truly get into a nice working rhythm.

However, that rhythm was interrupted by a call from Jack Dawson.

"How goes it, Sura?"

"Oh you know—the work is mind-numbingly boring, but my heart will go on."

He gave a light snort at the Titanic reference. "Alright, Celine Dion, I've got a job for you."

"Oh, splendid—up til now, I've just been sitting around, doing my nails, catching up on my TV shows—"

"Anyone ever tell you that you're an absolute smartass, Roza?"

"Maybe once or twice," she broke into a grin. "What can I do for you, my dear, sweet Jack?"

"I need you to figure out where the mail room is in the main building, and I need to get ahold of the mail logs as well."

"Seriously? That's all you needed?"

"That and the sound of your sweet, sweet voice."

"Jack Dawson, you charmer." She was grinning again as her fingers flew across the keyboard. "Alright, looks like the mailroom is…first subterranean floor, room B112."

"So…ten floors away from the explosion?"

"Sure."

"And the mail logs?"

"I'm not seeing anything on the server…wait, yeah, here we go—they scan incoming mail, but I don't know about going, that's a little more—"

"Only incoming?"

"I said I don't know. I'm still looking."

Dawson made a small sound of frustration. "It's just…I need to find out if there was a package that might have been…placed in the mailroom, but wasn't actually sent through the mail."

"Then I doubt it's going to be on this mail log, Jack. These packages would be scanned into the system _before_ they were delivered downstairs to the mail room."

"That's what I was afraid of. Thanks anyways—"

"Not so fast," she held up her finger, even though he couldn't see the gesture. "I said it won't be on _this_ mail log. First rule of data entry—have a secondary log, in a secondary location."

"So…there's another log we could check?"

"I'd say yes, but I'm not finding one in the system. It could be stored on an actual hard drive, instead of on the server—you'd need to speak to someone who actually worked in the mailroom."

"O'Donnell said there were a few clerks, and some interns—"

"Ah, here we go. There are three interns who act as couriers for Quantico. Marc Race, Gentry Gillingham, and Schuyler Adams."

"That last name sounds familiar. I think that's the kid that got blown up this morning."

Sura's fingers typed out a trail, pulling up more information on Schuyler Adams. "Shit, Jack. His dad is here—one of the forensic analysts in the lab."

"Jesus." The heartache was evident in her team leader's voice. "Adams isn't one of the guys we let go back to work, is he?"

Sura checked the ongoing list that they'd been updating throughout the interviews, "No. He's been interviewed, though."

"Does he know yet?"

"That's a question for O'Donnell, I think."

"Sometimes I forget that you really don't know everything."

"Just almost everything, sir."

"Have Race and Gillingham been interviewed?"

Sura searched for their names, "No. But hold on."

Her fingers were flying, pulling up more information, "They're not scheduled to work until this afternoon."

"It is afternoon, Sura."

"Despite the fact that I haven't left this damn van in hours, I am actually well aware of that fact, sir. I'm just saying that more than likely, they are not at Quantico—if they saw the news, they probably stayed home, and if they came out here, the Marines probably sent them away—their security clearance isn't nearly high enough to get them through on their own."

"Right," Jack gave a sigh of understanding. "Think you can track them down?"

"I'm going to ignore the absolute insult in the fact that you actually asked such a question and say yes."

"Thanks for being so magnanimous."

"I try, Jack, I really do." Her tone was one of patient longsuffering, as if she were truly a martyr for her job.

"Find 'em and tell 'em to get here. And let the Marines know to give 'em clearance."

"Sure thing. Anything else?"

"Not at the moment."

"Well, Mr. Dawson, it's been a pleasure."

She could actually feel him rolling his eyes at yet another Titanic line (and honestly, she only did it because she knew how much it irritated him). However, he simply returned with, "As always, Roza."

She hung up and set out to find the missing interns.

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Six sets of expectant eyes focused on Mac and Hotch as they returned.

"So?" Rossi was the first to speak.

The two chiefs exchanged wary looks, as if expecting the other to speak first.

Aaron Hotchner took the initiative, "There's going to be an official briefing within the hour. We need to have a profile by then."

He saw the split-second of incredulity in Kate Callahan's expression, and he didn't blame her—there were still so many unanswered variables, all of which could shift the entire profile to the opposite end of the spectrum (after all, they'd come up with several equally-plausible pseudo-profiles in the three minutes that they'd discussed the case at lunch). To settle on just one angle this early in the case could turn the entire investigation down the wrong path—however, it could just as likely focus it in the right direction.

Aaron Hotchner hoped for the latter.

"We've got a long day's work ahead of us," Mac looked over at Jeff and Roe, who merely nodded in agreement before giving their goodbyes. Mac turned to Hotch, her voice low, "I'll let you know as soon as I find a detonation device—if I find one."

He nodded in thanks.

She glanced back at the rest of the BAU with a smile, "Nice meeting you all—though I wish it were under better circumstances."

Rossi remembered what Jeff had said, about missing her daughter's graduation. However, he simply returned the polite smile and offered, "We'll see you again at dinner."

She made a slight grimace at the thought, "Another meal at the Academy. Can't say I've been dreaming for those days again."

Her remark earned her grins of agreement from the rest—the Academy mess hall was never famed for its culinary delights, and nothing had changed in that respect over the years.

With one last small wave, the evidence recovery team headed back to the main building.

"Alright," Derek Morgan glanced at his watch. "Let's go build ourselves a profile."

David Rossi glanced down at his watch. The BAU was beginning their first official act as part of the investigation. They'd just begun their race against the clock.

* * *

"_We never shall have any more time. We have, and we have always had, all the time there is."__  
__~Arnold Bennett._


	18. Everything and Nothing

**Everything and Nothing**

_Helen: If he wants to be famous, he has to be caught._

_M.J.: So you can write a book about him._

_~Ann Biderman and David Madsen, Copycat._

* * *

_***Author's Note: I know. I KNOW. But I've had a bit of writer's block—and it's all because of ONE. SINGLE. LINE. I'm hoping you guys can help me out on this: I was like 97% sure that some serial killer (fictitious or real, I'm honestly not sure on that), at some point, when asked why he made a certain mistake that got himself caught, replied "they don't write books about you unless you get caught", or something along those lines, equating capture as a necessary step in killer fame. **_

_**Here's the issue: I couldn't find the quote or its corresponding originator ANYWHERE. I've reviewed my collection of Robert K. Ressler and the entire works of John Douglas, I've watched entire seasons of Criminal Minds and various other films based on serial killers, trying to find this quote again, but to no avail. Until a few days ago—the chapter's opening quote is from the film Copycat, which perhaps is where I got this idea and construed it into a quote from an actual killer.**_

_**I originally wanted to use this line in the bit about profiling, but I finally gave up and settled for Spencer's re-quoting of the Replicator, which in turn actually changed the profile a wee bit as well. C'est la vie.**_

_**However, if I'm not totally batty and you DO remember the exact quote and the person who said it, please let me know! I have seriously been losing way too much sleep and sanity over a single sentence.**_

_**Thanks to everyone for your patience—and of course for all the wonderful reviews so far.**_

_**Also, in the second part of this chapter, there are references to John Curits aka the Replicator and George Foyet aka the Reaper, both of whom I believe need no introduction, and also Henry Grace, better known as Professor Rothschild from Eps 4.8: Masterpiece. Just want to jog your memory in advance so you'll be able to apply their various profiles to the one currently being discussed.***_

* * *

_**Interpol Branch Office. London, England.**_

"Chief Prentiss. Chief Prentiss, wake up."

Emily fought down the groan of protest rumbling in her throat. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, taking a few seconds to remember where she was.

However, her assistant wasn't that patient. "Chief Prentiss."

"I heard you the first ten times," Emily grumbled, sitting up slowly. The couch in her office had seemed so comfortable an hour ago, but now she could feel a slight strain in her lower back and her left shoulder. _Great, just what I need—another trip to the chiropractor. As if I have time for that._

Satisfied that her boss was indeed awake, Bonnie Kitchens took a step back, her face still filled with apprehension.

"What?" Emily noticed that Bonnie was clutching Emily's dry cleaning like it was a life-line (in a way, it was—Emily had spent the last two days overseeing a mission-turned-fiasco that was currently under inquest, and she hadn't left her office in over twenty-four hours, which meant Bonnie had to bring her simple things like clothes and food and copious amounts of good tea).

"It's…the news."

"What? They can't know about it yet—the incident was in Greenland, for crying out loud—"

"No, no, we're not in the news," Bonnie quickly interjected. "It's…Mr. Easter called. Told me to tell you to turn on the news. I checked first, to see if it was really important—"

Emily was already on her feet, long legs traversing the length of her spacious office, grabbing the remote from her desk and turning on the TV. "Clyde Easter is many things, Bonnie, but he's not a practical joker. If he tells you to do something, you do it."

The twenty-four hour news channel was currently giving a report on some weather conditions in the west of France, but Bonnie pointed to the ticker at the bottom of the screen.

_Quantico bombed. Eight dead, eleven critically injured. FBI does not suspect terrorism…_

Eight dead. Eleven critically injured. What were the odds that one of those was someone she knew, someone she loved?

"Oh god," Emily's hand automatically went to her stomach, which clenched with fear. "Please."

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Let's start with what we know," Aaron Hotchner began as the team filtered into the classroom that was now their brainstorming center.

"Bombers are cowards," David Rossi did not hide his distaste. "Bombing's one of the least personal ways to attack a victim."

"Which is why bombers aren't sadists," Morgan pointed out. He quickly tacked on, "Generally."

Spencer went to grab a marker for the dry-erase board, but Callahan simply took it from him with a look of slight reprimand (_no way, bud—we want to be able to actually read this thing_).

"Most UNSUBs use bombs to prove a point," Spencer was unfazed by her actions. "To even the scales on some perceived injustice or draw public attention to their cause. The victims themselves are generally secondary—it's more about the _message_ the bomber is trying to send through the bomb."

"So far, they haven't found a detonator." Hotch reminded them, crossing his arms over his chest as he began to pace a small strip in front of the window. He gave a small nod of agreement towards Reid, "That implies that our UNSUB did not have a specific target to reach. We have to assume there isn't a specific victim—this type of general attack is a statement piece. The question is: what is the statement?"

"_Fuck the FBI_ seems like a good place to start," Callahan murmured, almost to herself. This earned her an amused hum from David Rossi, who was leaning against a desk in an almost-idle fashion. However, she became serious again, staring at the blank board. She quickly wrote _UNSUB_, then corrected it to _UNSUB(S)_.

Hotch noticed the correction, quietly commenting, "For now, let's pursue the idea that this is a lone bomber. If there is anyone else involved, they're most likely not fully aware of his plans, or even their role in them."

Morgan nodded in agreement, "If this guy's doing it for attention, he certainly won't want to share the spotlight. Besides, he could get off from manipulating the other players into being a part of something so catastrophic."

"Another aspect of the God complex," Rossi added thoughtfully. "Controlling people's actions, in ways that they don't even realize."

Hotch redirected the line of conversation. "According to Macaraeg, TATP requires a certain level of skill and patience—the meticulous nature of this type of work suggests an age range of late-thirties to early-fifties."

"He's obviously had some kind of training," Callahan continued as she jotted down the age range and added _white male_—a distinction that wasn't refuted by any of her colleagues. "Either ex-military, or perhaps a background in chemistry."

"Actually, despite the volatile nature of TATP, it's relatively easy to make," Spencer Reid piped up, talking with his hands to illustrate his point. "Remember, the compound can be made from common household chemicals, and anyone with internet access and a very basic set-up could replicate it—there are even tutorials on Youtube about how to make this stuff."

"Youtube?" Callahan blanched at the thought.

The young doctor nodded in affirmation, "I once used that example in a lecture I gave on domestic terrorism—TATP had just been used in the London subway bombings at the time, so it was a good reference for the audience."

Morgan merely rolled his eyes heavenward—of course Reid had researched this topic, and of course he'd remembered all of his research. It was as random as his reading of government reports, and as equally unsurprising.

"Macaraeg's theory is that the UNSUB mixed the final parts together in the mailroom," Hotch glanced at Reid, as if awaiting his input on the idea.

"That's a helluva risk," Rossi spoke up first. "He'd have to go back and forth, several times, or else carry something large and conspicuous. And it'd mean he would spend more time in the mailroom, increasing his chances of getting caught."

"Risk-taker?" Callahan asked cautiously, her face etched with doubt. The cowardice of most bombers didn't generally lend itself to risk-taking personalities.

"God complex," Reid declared with certainty. "He either didn't think he'd get caught assembling it in the mailroom, or that if he assembled it elsewhere and transported it in, he wouldn't get blown up."

"Bombers tend to be mission-oriented," Morgan stated. "God complex doesn't always go along with that mindset, but it could definitely fit. Despite all the meticulous work required to make and transport TATP, this guy wouldn't have to be particularly intelligent, just methodical."

"He'd have to have somewhere to store all these supplies," Hotchner's voice was slow, lined with thought. "Which means he has his own office—or at least a work station that's removed from others. You couldn't have a desk in the bullpen and transport these materials back and forth without getting noticed."

"So…higher up the food chain?" Morgan surmised, though his tone and expression betrayed his doubt at such a thing.

His unit chief gave a curt shake of his head, "If he were in a position of higher authority, he wouldn't turn to bomb-making; he'd feel fulfilled. We're looking for someone who's been overlooked, someone who does good work, but still remains relatively unnoticed."

"Someone like John Curtis," Rossi agreed quietly, his words dropping on the room like a weight.

"So, a seemingly-nice guy who's been passed over," Morgan picked up the line of thought again, sparing a quick look at Rossi to make sure he was still alright (the odd mixture of vehemence and sorrow in Rossi's tone hadn't gone unnoticed). "He feels like he's been betrayed—perhaps he didn't get a promotion he thinks he deserved, so now he's out to get revenge?"

"Curtis became the Replicator just to prove how much smarter he was than the BAU—after he'd been denied the opportunity to become a member of the unit," Hotch stated, showing the possible correlation between the two.

"So we've gone from domestic terrorist to revenge seeker?" Callahan asked, holding the dry-erase marker as if to punctuate her question.

"That would explain the choice of victim," Rossi gave a shrug of agreement. "He's not targeting a specific person—just the Bureau as a whole."

"Besides, if he were a religious fanatic—most cases for domestic terrorism are involving some kind of religious or political zealotry—his attitudes and erratic behavior would have been more likely to stand out," Reid pointed out. "More than likely, someone would have already mentioned this guy as a potential suspect during an interview."

"You can't hide crazy," Rossi agreed in a tired tone.

"Perhaps someone _has_ already dropped a name," Callahan countered. "I mean, we're the ones giving the profile, but the Flying J's are leading the investigation—they might already have a suspect in sight."

"They won't," Hotch was certain. "Curtis was only two years ago. This man would've been around to hear all the stories, to learn from the Replicator's mistakes. He will have covered his tracks—it's not just about proving the Bureau wrong; it's also about proving he's better than anyone else who ever tried this before."

Morgan gave a slight shrug, gesturing towards Hotch, "I'd buy the theory of a revenge seeker. I mean, so far there hasn't been any messages received—if this were from a religious or ideological standpoint, surely the UNSUB would have already reached out to the give the world his manifesto. He's got our attention, it'd be the perfect time to step up to the microphone."

"Unless he isn't finished yet," Rossi replied dryly. That thought didn't settle well on Callahan's stomach.

"But someone did contact the press," Hotch frowned slightly, glancing over at the board, which was now filled with Callahan's notes. He stared at the words for a beat, as if trying to order them into something viable in his brain. "He wants the world to see what he's done, but he doesn't want to take credit for it—or at least doesn't want us to know who he is, yet."

The _yet_ was a heavy weight of apprehension.

"It's part of his power play," Morgan picked up the line of thought. "He pulls something like this, right under the noses of an entire building full of federal agents, and he gets off by the fact that no one even realizes that he's the one who did it."

"John Curtis, all over again," Rossi muttered.

"But what does he do next?" Hotch asked. "Does he do like George Foyet, go dormant and watch people scramble like mad for answers?"

"He can't possibly expect to get away with it," Callahan was incredulous. "I mean, I know he might have a God complex telling him that he's invincible, but seriously? He has to know that he's living on borrowed time at this point. Yes, he did pull this off in a building filled with federal agents, but now he's got all those agents on his trail."

"Well if he wants to be truly famous, he has to get caught," Rossi pointed out. "God complexes are derived from extreme narcissism—like Henry Grace, he'll have an overwhelming need to show off his work to the rest of the world. He won't be able to sit back and let someone else possibly take the credit for his brilliance."

"The Zodiac was profiled as a narcissist and he never revealed his identity," Morgan reminded him.

"We're pigeon-holing with textbook definitions," Hotch interrupted. "Every UNSUB is unique. He may be a narcissist—if our supposition of it being a seemingly-wronged agent is correct, then he very likely is—but it isn't his narcissism that's fueling his actions. At least not predominantly."

"_They'll remember me now_," Spencer murmured quietly. He glanced at his colleagues, who were looking at him questioningly, "John Curtis said that to Blake, when he was holding her hostage and expecting to blow up the entire BAU in his final act of superiority—she mentioned it during her debriefing interview."

He spoke quickly, his voice reaching a higher pitch as his hands worked double-time to illustrate his point, "If the UNSUB is truly seeking revenge, at some point he has to pull of the mask so that his victims can realize who he is—they _have_ to know his identity, or otherwise they can't realize their mistake in failing to give him the recognition he thinks he deserved. He _needs_ them to know that he was the one who out-smarted them; he needs them to know that they were wrong about him. Without that recognition, he's completely unfulfilled."

"But…that goes in direct opposition to the God complex theory," Callahan shook her head. "The fame and revenge angles both require that he shows his identity—essentially, he _has_ to be caught. But a God complex would dictate that he believes he'll _never_ get caught."

"Admitting his crimes and actually being caught aren't exactly the same thing," Morgan crossed his arms over his chest, keeping his tone neutral to avoid any hint of confrontation. "This attack took time to plan and execute—which means he also had time to work out an exit strategy. He may have a way to leave the country or otherwise fall off the map—all he has to do is drop a letter in the mail on his way out, or send an email to a reporter—there are half a dozen ways he could let the Bureau know who he is and what he's done without giving away where he's gone."

The rest of the team gave hums of agreement, their stomachs turning to stone at the idea that the UNSUB might have already enacted such a plan and was already out of reach.

"So he's going to go the way of Curtis," Hotch gave a nod in Rossi's direction, switching the focus of everyone's thoughts. "Which means he's also got an endgame in place. But if he truly wants to prove his prowess over the Bureau, he'll have a follow-up. He'll stick around to see the damage, to make sure he was successful before he claims responsibility. He needs to know that he won, and he needs to see the results of his victory firsthand."

"Curtis wasn't content with just one feat of superiority," Rossi mused. "If he wants to one-up the Replicator, he'd gonna have to provide a repeat performance."

"Which is?" Morgan asked quietly, his words heavy with all the answers he didn't want to hear.

Hotch's expression flickered with regret and anguish at the uncertainty of that question. Instead, he turned back to the board—so much depended on their profile, as it always did, but this time, it hit closer to home, both literally and figuratively.

His eyes went from word to word on the board—_God complex, training, average, revenge, loner_.

"He's not a loner," Hotch stood a little straighter. Callahan turned back to him, her brow furrowed in confusion—_loner_ was a typical characteristic for most bombers. Hotch moved forward, taking the eraser and removing the word from the board as he continued speaking to Callahan, "Earlier, you mentioned that whoever did this, if he was still here, wouldn't be one of the people making a fuss—he'd be quiet, compliant, trying to blend in."

"Yeah," Callahan nodded slowly, unsure of where this was going but still obviously ready to stand behind her theory.

"If we profile him as someone who goes with the flow—someone average, normal, unremarkable—he won't be a loner. That would set him apart." Hotch turned back to the rest of the team. "Everything we know so far points to a mission-oriented UNSUB. Part of his mission includes not getting caught—which means he has to blend in. We're not looking for the guy who hides away in his office and never speaks to anyone. We're looking for the man who smiles at you in the hallway and asks about your kids."

"The one you'd never expect," Morgan agreed solemnly.

"Jesus," Kate Callahan shook her head sadly. "This is going to totally screw with people's heads. I mean, if we catch this guy—"

"_When_," Morgan corrected.

"And he turns out to be the office favorite, everybody's pal…" Callahan shook her head again. "People won't know who to trust anymore."

"That's not our concern," Hotch reminded her gently. He wanted to add, _Our job is to get this son of a bitch and make him pay_. But he refrained, not wanting to sound like a vigilante or stir up unnecessary emotions. Their objectivity was the most important aspect of their work, and as hard as it was to maintain that objectivity, he had to set an example for his team.

His cell suddenly buzzed in his pocket. It was a text.

From Emily.

His heart stopped for a beat.

_I know you're probably already working on the case. Please just let me know everyone's OK._

Even in those two simple sentences, he could hear her worry and her fear. He wanted to call her, to apologize for giving her even a second's worth of concern over her former teammates. But she was right—he was already working on the case.

_Everyone's OK. Will call as soon as I can to give you more details. _He shot back, instantly hating how cold and professional it sounded.

Within a few seconds, she replied. _Don't worry about me. Do what you need to do, call when it's all over._

Typical Emily, putting his needs before her own. However, she also understood life in the field, and he knew that she wouldn't hold it against him if it took a day or two before he got back to her.

He should have told her about JJ and Garcia. It wasn't technically a lie—they were both on the mend and moving towards a better state—but still, he knew she wouldn't be happy about the fact that she was the last one to know that her friends had been injured, especially in JJ's case.

He suddenly realized that everyone in the room was still watching him, waiting for his input on their half-baked, unfinished profile—the profile that would determine the success of this case. Not for the first time in his career, he realized how fragile an entire line of assumption could be.

He forced himself to push all thought of Emily Prentiss aside, quietly reminding himself that the sooner he closed this case, the sooner he could talk to her again.

"Alright," he glanced at his watch. "We've got thirty minutes to turn this profile into something workable. Let's put together what we have so far."

* * *

"We are looking for a white male, age 40-55, of average to above-average intelligence who possesses some kind of technical or military training. He is meticulous and detail-oriented. He is quiet and keeps to himself, but he's not antisocial—in fact, if you asked his coworkers to describe him, they would not use the word _loner_, but if they thought a little more about it, they'd realize that he never joins them for lunch or drinks after work. His superiors would describe him as someone with potential, but without ambition. He is in a position of mid-level importance, with an unremarkable career. This man has spent his life flying underneath the radar—when looking at his actions and attitudes over the past few years, you'll see that everything he does has been designed to keep from standing out."

Judith Eden gave an inward eye-roll at SSA Hotchner's words (_the needle hunt continues_). However, she refrained from any outward expression of her thoughts, though she could still feel Shostakovich's watchful gaze ever upon her. The room was filled to the brim again, with the BAU, the Flying J's, Cruz, and O'Donnell all in attendance—Judith was keenly aware of the fact that they were all like fish in a bowl, and every facial expression was witnessed and scrutinized by several different people from various angles at all times.

"However, there will be something in his recent history that will stand out," Derek Morgan took over, setting his hands on his hips. "At some point—most likely within the last two years—he was passed over for a promotion. He may or may not have been on the short list, but he truly believes that he should have been—and he should have been the man who got the job. This attack against the Bureau is not only his way of exacting revenge, but also of proving that he was the most capable man for the job, as exhibited by the level of skill and intelligence he has to possess in order to pull off such an attack."

Now Judith Eden couldn't keep quiet, "You do realize you've just recapped John Curtis' profile, almost to a T?"

Rossi took a moment to size her up before admitting, "We believe Curtis provided inspiration for this UNSUB."

"Which means he most likely learned for Curtis' mistakes, too," Jack Dawson decreed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"How do we even go about figuring out potential suspects?" Jessalyn Keller looked around in confusion, absentmindedly adjusting her black-rimmed glasses. "I mean, you're also talking about people who might not have even _been_ on a short list."

"The best bet is to look at every promotion in the last three years," Kate Callahan stepped up. "Don't look at short lists or even the person who received the promotion—look simply at the other agents in the department or unit where the promotion originated from."

"Curtis wasn't even at Quantico when he got skipped over for the BAU posting," Judith Eden pointed out coolly, her skepticism evident in her expression. "I understand that our guy had to be at Quantico in order to pull this off—but that doesn't necessarily mean he was even in the department that had the promotion. Which puts our suspect pool back to the entire population matching your physical description—which, by the way, applies to about ninety-five percent of the employees at Quantico."

"Actually, white males make up only 67.48% of the Special Agent population," Spencer Reid corrected her quickly. "When you factor in the age range of our UNSUB, you get less than that—more like 45%."

SSA Eden gave him a long, incredulous stare.

Hotch quickly redirected the topic of discussion. "There are a few other distinguishing factors. He works in an area that allows him relative seclusion—an office of his own, perhaps, or a workstation removed from the others. His attempts at normalcy and blending in will have started around the time of his rejection for promotion—he would be smart enough to start building his cover almost immediately. When prompted, coworkers will realize that their office pal wasn't always so outgoing and friendly, that the change seemed to happen almost overnight."

"So we're basically looking for everyone and no one," O'Donnell surmised with a weary sigh. "I mean, how many people are going to remember a detail like that?"

"They won't—at least not until prompted to do so," Morgan explained. "The human mind processes millions upon millions of data every minute of every day—we tend to ignore the pieces that seem insignificant, but that doesn't mean that the information is lost completely. For example: did you drive to work today?"

"Well, yes," O'Donnell answered, perplexed by the simple question and its obvious answer.

"Where do you drive in from?"

"Woodbridge."

"Do you take Barnett Avenue or Russell Road to get here?"

"Barnett." O'Donnell was becoming more confused with each step, and most of the expressions in the room matched his.

Morgan nodded, "So the light at the intersection of Catlin and Barnett—did you have to stop for pedestrians at the crosswalk?"

"What? I have no idea."

"Yes, you do. Your brain just assumed it wasn't important, so it filed away the information without adding any special markers to it." Morgan prompted him again. "Were you late today?"

"No. I was on time."

"If you were late, it would be easier to remember if you had to wait for pedestrians—it would be an added stressor to your lateness. Were you listening to music?"

"Ah…yeah. AC/DC," O'Donnell admitted with a sheepish grin.

"Catlin Avenue would be the main drive you take to reach the building. So this is the last song you've got before you're at work. What song was it?"

"Uh….High Voltage," O'Donnell surprised himself with his ability to remember such a thing.

"So you're listening to this particular song. You're on Barnett. You approach Catlin. Do you have to wait for pedestrians?"

"No." The SAC suddenly realized.

"See?" Morgan made a slight gesture towards him. "You remember the answer to the question—you just needed a little help."

"The route seems a bit circuitous," Jonas Shostakovich pointed out. "Seems like playing twenty questions for one single answer—an answer that may not be helpful at all, if the person being questioned doesn't have a working relationship with the UNSUB."

"We'll find a way to streamline it," Dawson volunteered, giving a nod towards Morgan, as if silently acknowledging his logic. He took a moment to glance at the rest of the BAU team, "Anything else we need to be on the lookout for?"

"Other than a man you described as being both unambitious and yet still miffed by not receiving a promotion?" Judith Eden clarified, one dark brow arching skeptically.

"His superiors would describe him as unambitious," Morgan corrected her. "How he perceives himself is different from how his coworkers see him. He seems unambitious because he expects his intellect and brilliance to be readily apparent—he's never thought he had something to prove."

"Until now," Jack Dawson added.

Morgan nodded in agreement, "He's always assumed that his hard work and dedication would pay off—even if the majority of his work was mundane or otherwise unexceptional. This whole thing started when his belief was proven false."

"And now he's out for revenge," Jessalyn Keller murmured quietly.

"Christ," Eden sighed. "Makes you almost wish it was just some random sovereign citizen nut-job who just happened to have a lucky break."

Jonas Shostakovich shot her a warning look, while Dawson and Keller held expressions of mild amusement and simple empathy, respectively.

"What?" Eden noted Shostakovich's silent reprimand. "I said _almost_."

David Rossi bit back a grin. Derek Morgan wondered what the hell was wrong with this woman.

"Agent Eden has a point," Hotch admitted, nodding in her direction. "When revenge is the key motivator, the likelihood of apprehending the suspect alive drops drastically. As pointed out, there are several parallels between this UNSUB and John Curtis—and like Curtis, we have to assume that this UNSUB has an end game."

"He won't go down without a fight," Derek Morgan agreed, setting his hands on his hips again. "And when he reaches that point, he'll try to take out as many agents as he can."

"Like the bomb in Curtis' house," Jack Dawson surmised.

"You all seem particularly well-versed in the Replicator case," Kate Callahan mentioned, trying to keep any accusation from her tone.

Jack and Judith spared a glance at one another as Dawson admitted, "Eden and I were part of the post-action panel. We were required to review all facts of the case, as well as the pre- and post-actions of all parties involved."

"A panel?" This was obviously the first time that Aaron Hotchner had heard such news.

Now it was Mateo Cruz and Scott O'Donnell's turn to exchange cryptic looks. Cruz hadn't been section chief at the time, but he'd been given the panel's report after he'd been installed, so he was still aware of the whole thing.

"Given all that happened, it seemed like a necessary precaution," O'Donnell stated, his tone painstakingly diplomatic. "The Director needed to know that the team could still function, after everything."

"You mean after Section Chief Strauss' murder," Rossi intoned flatly, feeling a wave of irritation at this side-stepping. Erin had been killed—to sweep it under the rug with phrases like _all that happened_ and _everything_ trivialized her sacrifice (and perhaps struck a deeper chord in David Rossi than what was expected or professional).

"No, actually—I mean after Strauss' actions in attempting to capture the Replicator," O'Donnell didn't shy away this time. "She defied direct orders from the head of the Bureau—"

"And saved our lives in the process—along with untold others." Now Aaron Hotchner joined the fight, his obstinate expression betraying his obvious disapproval of O'Donnell's post-mortem treatment of Erin Strauss' memory. "If she hadn't set the trap for the Replicator, we certainly wouldn't have found him as quickly as we did—he could have continued to victimize innocent lives for weeks, months, maybe even years longer, if not for her actions."

"I'm sure Scott isn't trying to imply anything about Erin Strauss' character," Kate Callahan stepped in, glancing between the men, trying to smooth the situation. She looked back to her other team mates for help, but Derek Morgan was giving her a stern glare (_don't side with that man—don't choose him over us_).

She'd forgotten just how loyal and tight-knit the BAU could be. She hadn't personally known Erin Strauss, but she should have known that the rest of the team would choose her side over O'Donnell's version of events (not that she could fault them for doing so—because after all, Strauss had helped save their lives).

"They had to make sure that the rest of the unit wasn't negatively impacted by her actions and attitudes," Cruz tried to reason with them, but he could see that he was only digging the hole deeper. Still, he kept going, "She was overseeing several high-profile units—some of the most high-profile in the entire Bureau. If she, as a supervisor, encouraged an environment of insubordination and reckless endangerment—"

Rossi gave a snort of contempt at the last remark.

Derek Morgan's eyes were wide with seriousness as he informed his SAC, "You obviously did not know Erin Strauss."

"Continuing her internal hunt for the Replicator was probably the only time she stepped outside of policy lines," Spencer Reid piped up.

_Not the only time_. Damn David Rossi's mind for thinking such profane thoughts in a moment like this. He kept his expression studiously neutral—most of the team was aware of his former relationship with Strauss by now, but they'd all die before letting that secret out of their circle. Her affair with Rossi had been illicit, and she deserved to be remembered for something better than that.

"It was a necessary precaution," O'Donnell informed them gravely, taking a beat to look each BAU member in the eye. "I never said I agreed with it—but the top brass wanted it, and we had to comply."

"Or else look complicit in the 'environment of insubordination'," Rossi mused. Then tension in his shoulders went down at notch at O'Donnell's confession (simply admitting that he hadn't agreed with the original orders put him back in a better light), "Witch Hunt 101—damned if you do, damned if you don't."

"Good job," Eden gave Dawson a pat on the back. "Way to bring the briefing to a screeching halt of betrayal and distrust. Great team-building exercise here."

Jack warred between irritation and amusement. Leave it to Eden to infuse some snark into the situation. Instead, he pushed both emotions aside and focused on the profilers, "If it's any consolation, the panel sided with Chief Strauss—all of her actions were deemed necessary and appropriate. Almost every person on the panel concluded their remarks on her performance by saying they'd have done the exact same thing in her shoes."

"Well, that's a relief," Rossi's words dripped with sarcasm. However, his ire wasn't directed at Dawson, and Jack understood that—the Italian was upset that a panel had been called in the first place, and rightly so.

"And since I'm the one who made our train jump the track—I'll set us right again," Dawson gave a heavy sigh, sparing an apologetic glance around the room. "Our analyst has pointed out that there is most likely a secondary mail log, which might have some new clue about the package containing the bomb. She's currently trying to contact the two surviving interns who were in charge of the mail, along with Schuyler Adams. They should be able to direct us to the potential secondary log, and hopefully we'll have a few more answers by then. As of right now, we have nothing new to report on the interview front—however, we'll devise new questions to add to the list, based on Agent Morgan's suggestion of jogging people's memories, and dispense them to the other agents handling interviews as well."

Scott O'Donnell gave a curt nod of approval, crossing his arms over his chest. "So far, SSA Macaraeg hasn't reported anything else back from the scene or the lab."

Dawson's cellphone buzzed. He held up a finger, as if to halt the conversation, before answering, "What is it, Roza?"

"I've reached our elusive interns. They're both on their way in. However, with traffic and the wall of press, it'll be over an hour before they get here."

"I understand. Thank you." Dawson hung up and announced to the room, "The interns are on their way. But it'll be a while."

He glanced back at his team, "Jude, Joe, you might as well head over to the crime scene. Get a feel for it. Jess and I will stay here to work on a new list of questions—with the BAU's help, of course."

At the last part, he turned his gaze back to the unit in question. Aaron Hotchner gave a nod of agreement, "I'm sending Rossi and Reid over to the crime scene as well, but the rest of the team will certainly help with the questions."

O'Donnell dismissed the briefing, rubbing his forehead in fatigue and irritation.

Judith Eden and Jonas Shostakovich took a moment to don their coats before heading out.

Rossi still had his jacket, since he'd never set foot inside the office all morning, but Reid's overcoat had been left behind in the shuffle to exit the building. He hadn't noticed, when adrenaline had been shooting through his veins at maximum speed, but now as the day slipped into mid-afternoon and the winter sun began to retreat, he suddenly realized how much cooler it felt.

"You poor darling, where's your coat?" SSA Eden's English accent was heavy with compassionate concern (yes, she truly did remind him of his mother).

"Still in the main building," Reid informed her. With a small smile, he reassured her, "I'll stop by and grab it, on our way to the crime scene."

"Well that's not gonna help you right now, is it?" She whipped off her own coat and handed it to him with little ceremony. "And don't even think about refusing. Take the jacket."

He complied with another smile, "Thank you."

"And they say chivalry is dead," Rossi deadpanned.

"Oh, god, I hope it is," Judith dismissed the thought with a careless air. "Have you ever read the actual chivalric codes of medieval centuries? Some of those ideas are best left dead and buried."

"Like making war against the infidel without cessation and without mercy?" Spencer Reid guessed.

The older woman gave him a look of appreciation. "I must admit, I'm not surprised you know this, Dr. Reid."

"You shouldn't be," Rossi assured her. "The kid's a walking encyclopedia."

"With an eidetic memory," Judith added, offering another smile at the young doctor. "What an absolutely amazing gift to have."

Most people would simply "playfully" hint at his weirdness, his innate freakish abilities over which he had no control (they would _attempt_ to make it playful, but Spencer could always feel the jealousy or fear or derision just beneath the surface). However, Spencer Reid was quickly learning that Judith Eden was not most people.

"Thank you," he said simply, and he meant it.

She merely waved away the gratitude. By now, Jonas had removed his coat to give to her, but she refused, despite his insistence. The four agents stepped out into the February afternoon, almost simultaneously taking a deep breath as they headed towards the main building.

"So," Judith gave a light huff, her breath creating a cloud in the cool air. "Do we think we'll actually find anything worthwhile on this particular expedition?"

"Probably not," Rossi intoned, though he seemed unaffected by the prospect.

"This is always my least favorite part of the case," Jonas admitted, squinting slightly as he observed the long line of news vans and reporters just outside the barricade. "The in-between. When you're stuck waiting, because everything and nothing is happening, all at once."

Rossi gave a hum of agreement. Everything and nothing, indeed.

* * *

"_Patience is power. Patience is not an absence of action; rather it is "timing". It waits on the right time to act, for the right principles and in the right way."__  
~__Fulton J. Sheen__._

* * *

_***Author's Note: Reid's figures on the statistics for FBI employees come from the FBI's website, with figures being based on the 2013-2014 reports. However his guess of 45% is totally made up—mainly because I'm too lazy to figure out a formula to calculate the exact number.**_

_**The basics of the profile are based on the writings of John Douglas, profiles of actual bombers, and notes from my own training with various professors.***_


	19. The Kindness of Strangers

**The Kindness of Strangers**

"_Family means no one gets left behind."_

_~Chris Sanders and Dean DeBlois, Lilo &amp; Stitch._

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center Parking Lot. Washington, D.C.**_

"Look, Aunt Nelope," Henry held up a Lego catalogue for her inspection. "I'm making my list for Christmas."

"Which is still ten months away," Will reminded him from the driver's seat. Henry seemed not to hear the comment.

Penelope merely grinned as she buckled up—she'd chosen to sit in the backseat with Henry, while Sandy took the front passenger seat.

"So, Penelope," Sandy turned slightly, a smile on her face. "You seeing anyone special these days?"

The expression on her face was so perfectly motherly that Penelope had to laugh—of course Sandy would ask her that (and truthfully, she was grateful—for years now, Sandy Jareau had treated Penelope like a daughter, and it was a feeling that she didn't mind at all).

"Well…um, yes, actually." Penelope tried not to grin too broadly, but Sandy's gleeful reaction was infectious.

"Oh, do tell! What's his name? What does he do? Is he cute?"

"Grandma," Henry interrupted, tilting his head backwards in exasperation. "We're trying to look at Lego sets!"

Obviously, Lego ninjas should take precedence over Nelope's love life.

Sandy merely grinned, pointing at Penelope in a playful fashion (_saved by the kiddo, but this is discussion isn't over yet, Missy_).

Penelope merely shook her head.

However, she quickly sobered as she realized that she hadn't contacted Sam yet. She and Will had seen the press conference on television, and by now even people who hadn't were aware of what was going on at Quantico—no doubt the twitterverse and blogosphere were zinging with stories and theories, and people were discussing the news over lunches and coffee breaks and water coolers everywhere.

She didn't have her phone, so that was her excuse for being out of reach—but honestly, she hadn't thought about Sam at all. Her entire focus had been on her team, her family, the people she loved.

Was Sam not a part of that category?

The answer both frightened and saddened her.

It took Penelope a few minutes to realize they weren't taking the usual route back to Chez LaMontagne. Will stopped at a corner strip mall, glancing at Penelope through the rearview mirror, "We should probably stop and get you a new phone—your whole team would rest easier, knowing they've got a way to contact you directly."

She suddenly understood why Jennifer Jareau loved this man so—he always seemed to think of everything, and always in the interest of everyone else instead of himself.

"Thank you," she smiled back.

"Oh, this is perfect," Sandy was getting out of the car, opening Henry's door and unbuckling him from his carseat. "There's an ice-cream shop right next door—whaddya say you and I go see what they've got?"

Henry cheered in agreement.

Will feigned exasperation, "You've been here ten minutes and you're already giving the boy sugar?"

Sandy Jareau gave a wicked grin, "Gotta live up to my daughter's expectations."

Penelope laughed. In so many ways, the older woman reminded her of her own mother. That had been slightly painful, the first few times she'd interacted with Sandy, but over the years the pain had faded and frayed to the edges, and now Penelope was able to simply appreciate the reminders. It was like karma was trying to repay some of the debt it'd created by taking away her parents.

"Oh my goodness," Penelope suddenly realized as she got out of the car. "I don't—my wallet, my purse, everything's back at Quantico."

She felt like an orphan all over again—bruised and bandaged, in borrowed shoes (Nick had been sweet enough to give her a pair of flip-flops he'd kept in his locker at the nurses' station, claiming he couldn't take her heels without giving her _something_ in return, and she'd been too grateful to refuse), with no money to her name and no idea when any of these situations would be remedied. The overwhelming urge to cry nearly shattered her.

"Penelope," Will's voice was quiet, lined with care. He stepped closer, his hand gently resting on her shoulder. "I'll take care of it."

"But—I can't—"

"You can, and you will." He was determined now. "If the situation were reversed, I know you'd do the same for me. And if it were JJ instead of you, I know I'd want the peace of mind in knowing I could reach her."

Then, with a slight smile, he added, "Think of it as my way of adding to the karma piggy bank."

She couldn't help but grin at this—he definitely knew how to speak her language.

"You are a wonderful man, William LaMontage," she informed him.

"Just don't let it get out," he returned in mock seriousness, his accent becoming more pronounced with his feigned gravity. "I've got a reputation to protect, you know."

"My lips are sealed," she promised.

He gave a curt nod of approval as he turned and made his way to the sidewalk, where he stopped and waited for Penelope to hobble up as well.

Sandy and Henry were already waiting on the other side of the car, Henry doing some weird disco-happy-dance that could only have been learned from the illustrious and badly-coordinated Dr. Spencer Reid.

"What kind of ice cream do you want, Aunt Nelope?" Henry stopped his dance break, looking up at her with shining expectant eyes.

"Oh, well, Daddy and I are going to get me a new phone," Penelope motioned to the store.

"You'll definitely want an ice cream after all that hullabaloo," Sandy Jareau assured her.

Penelope Garcia could not disagree with that statement.

"How about you surprise me," she challenged Henry with a grin. He gladly accepted with a wide smile of his own.

She watched them walk off, Henry already describing his perfect ice-cream cone to his grandmother, occasionally giving a little hop of joy at the thought of chocolate sprinkles or raspberry swirls.

_I've always depended on the kindness of strangers_. For some reason, Blanche's famous line from _A Streetcar Named Desire_ popped into her head. It was true—Penelope Garcia believed in karma and kindness, because that was how she'd always survived.

Except these people weren't strangers. They were her family, in the truest sense of the word.

The awful orphan feeling faded like mist in the morning sun.

* * *

_**FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Reid decided to wait until they were on their way back to the Academy to stop and grab his jacket—though he'd gratefully handed Judith's back to her once they'd reached the main building. Normally he wouldn't dream of taking someone else's coat, but something in her expression had belied her determination, and Spencer Reid had known that to resist would be futile. Again, she was like his mother in that respect.

The walk back to the main building had been pleasant. Jonas and Judith shared the same easy camaraderie that the BAU had, and they certainly didn't mind taking themselves out of a grave situation for a few moments to talk about trivial things like books or recipes (that was where Jonas and Rossi clicked—apparently Vichie, as Judith affectionately referred to him, was quite the grill master, and he had a plethora of great marinades for various meats and vegetables). By the time they'd reached the main building, Eden and Reid were deep in discussion of _Le Chanson de Roland _and its establishment of the first basic chivalric code, and Rossi and Shostakovich were agreeing to swap recipes.

Judith inserted herself into the two chefs' conversation with a slight smile, "After this is all over, we should invite you down to Vichie's place—it's a case-closing tradition for the Flying J's. Jack brings the best cuts of meat, Sura brings fresh vegetables from her garden, Vichie grills the food, Jess makes the most delightful desserts, and I provide stunning conversation and glittering atmosphere."

Jonas rolled his eyes good-naturedly at her self-effacement, "And Jude brings the best wines you'll ever find. She has a gift for it, really."

"It's the nose," she intoned in mock seriousness, tilting her head upwards to highlight her prominent beak. "Allows me to sniff out the best vintage. Truly. I should have been a sommelier."

"Traditionally speaking, women weren't allowed in wine cellars and therefore couldn't be tasters—it was believed their menstruation would ruin the wine," Reid piped up. "However, recent studies have proven that women are better suited to be sommeliers—perhaps because when men test wine, they tend to use their left brain, whereas women tend to use their right, which allows them to mentally categorize tastes and smells on a more creative level. And of course, there's also the fact that the hormone estrogen actually heightens a woman's sense of smell, giving them a sensory edge over their male counterparts."

"See how useful his gift is on the job?" Rossi turned to Judith was a droll smile as he opened the door to the stairwell.

"I happen to find it fascinating, thank you very much," she returned easily, breezing past. However, she stopped at the foot of the stairs, motioning for her colleagues to go first, "With my bad leg, I'll slow us all down. Best if I head up last."

Despite her statement, she easily kept up with the three men for all nine flights of stairs.

The lyrical stylings of intense gothic metal met them as they entered the hallway.

The four investigators approached the caution tape which cordoned off the quarantine zone, no one daring to cross the line.

David Rossi gave a sharp whistle, trying to get the bomb squad's attention over the music. Adelaide Macaraeg's head snapped up, her amber eyes wide with surprise behind the clear safety glasses she wore—they were magnifiers, specifically to help her see the smaller bits of trace evidence, and they gave her the look of an inquisitive owl (which David realized actually made her look _cute_, an odd description for her generally harsh features).

She sat back, slipping off her glasses before rising to her feet and moving towards them. The music got louder, too, and that's when they realized she was the source of the sound. She peeled off her gloves, removed her phone from her jumpsuit pocket and silenced the music, taking a beat to pull the forensic hood from her head before asking, "Can I help you guys with something?"

She wasn't meaning to be rude, but it was obvious that she hadn't been expecting company. By now, Rowena and Jeff had paused to acknowledge the newcomers, their expressions equally surprised by the intrusion.

"We were hoping to have a look around," Judith Eden gave an almost-apologetic smile. "Get a feel for the place, that sort of thing."

Macaraeg cast a doleful glance over her shoulder at the scene behind her, "Honestly, it's not exactly stable—and I wouldn't feel comfortable allowing you into the quarantine zone without full forensic gear. We're walking through hell as it is; I wouldn't want the techs in the lab getting all excited over something that turns out to be something one of you left behind on the tour."

Despite her diplomatic language and polite tone, it was crystal clear that Adelaide Macaraeg wasn't going to allow a single agent past that caution tape. Still, she offered a smile, "However, I can let you take a look at the laser scans we took of the scene earlier today. That's going to give you a better idea of what the scene actually looked like before we started moving things around to collect evidence."

With a slight nod, she gestured back down the hall, where the pelican cases were opened. "I can set up the laptop in one of these empty rooms—five minutes, tops, and you'll be able to see it from just about every angle."

The others simply nodded in agreement (not that they had much choice—Mac was certainly the one directing traffic at this point). She slipped under the caution tape, taking a moment to unzip her forensic jumpsuit and leave it on the floor, along with her safety glasses, gloves, and shoe covers. Dusting her hands on her jeans, she then offered her right hand in a gesture of greeting, "SSA Macaraeg, by the way."

"SSA Eden," Judith accepted the handshake. She tilted her head towards her partner, "And this is SSA Shostakovich."

Jonas shook her hand as well.

Macaraeg merely gave nods of greeting to Rossi and Reid, whom she already knew, before heading down the hall. True to her word, within a matter of minutes she was seated at a break room table, clicking through the scans uploaded onto the evidence recovery team laptop.

"I must admit, I was expecting something…bigger," Jonas Shostakovich spoke quietly, his eyes fixed on the computer screen. The photos definitely made the scene seem more contained, but still, the general radius wasn't that wide.

"It was big enough," Mac gently reminded him, the lines of her face slipping into an expression of pained compassion. However, she quickly reverted to a more professional demeanor, "I do have to agree that there are so many other ways that this guy could've gotten a big boom with larger results, for about the same amount of work and time he put into this particular set up."

Judith stood straight again, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked over at the two behavioral analysts, "Doesn't really square with a guy who's out for revenge, does it? Or Agent Morgan's whole theory of our UNSUB trying to take as many Fibbies with him as possible."

"The purpose of the bomb was to inspire fear," Rossi informed her. "He's saying 'Look what I can do.' It's a warning—there's more to come. If we think this is bad, we ain't seen nothing yet."

Mac looked up at Judith, the confusion evident in her face, "Revenge for what?"

SSA Eden nodded towards Reid and Rossi, "The BAU's supposition is that our guy is John Curtis 2.0."

Now Mac turned to look at Rossi—he expected to see fear, but instead he saw anger.

"_That's_ what all this about? Some idiot's wounded pride?"

Judith suddenly decided that she and Adelaide Macaraeg were going to be best friends.

David Rossi merely gave a mirthless smile at the assessment.

"Dear Lord," Mac returned her attention to the laptop, clicking through the photos as she muttered, almost to herself, "Men and their egos."

"There's still a chance that it's a woman," Rossi informed her, though he didn't really put any conviction behind his statement—this flustered frustration was a new side to the cool and collected SSA Macaraeg that he'd seen since he'd first met her earlier today, and true to his nature, David Rossi couldn't leave well enough alone when his curiosity was piqued.

"Women don't do stuff like this," Mac dismissed his idea without so much as a glance in his direction.

"It's true," Spencer agreed in a conversational tone. "In terms of most crimes we witness—serial murders, rapes, bombings, you name it—female UNSUBs are a startling minority."

"Because it's nearly impossible for a woman in this society to have the same kind of entitlement complex as a white heterosexual male," Mac informed him. "We don't get our panties in a wad over rejection, even when we know it's unfair—we deal with systemic sexism our entire lives, so it's no big surprise when we're screwed over. Same goes for why there aren't as many black serial killers. Minorities in this country are used to being taken advantage of. We don't feel an intrinsic need to even the scales, since the scales have never been even."

Realizing that she'd gotten a little too fervent in her position, she glanced around with a small smile of apology, "Sorry. My immediate reaction to stress is to let my mouth run."

"Don't apologize," Rossi told her, his tone tinged with admiration. "It's good to have convictions—and for the most part, your theory's pretty sound."

"Except black males make up 40.3% of all known serial murderers in the past century," Spencer Reid piped up. "In fact, for the last two decades, black males have made up over 50% of serial killers in the U.S. alone."

"Well, so much for _pretty sound_," Mac quipped, giving a doleful look to Rossi, who merely chuckled.

"The over-arching theme of your theory still holds weight," Spencer assured her. "In fact, women only make up 9.2% of serial killers and white males are statistically more likely to kill for attention."

"Ah." She held out her hands as if welcoming her triumph. "I am redeemed."

Jonas was thoughtful, "Could the rise in black male serial murderers be equated with the rise in racial equality?"

"Or perhaps the rise in gang violence over the past half-century," Judith mused, looking over her shoulder at him.

Spencer lit up at the realization that he was in a room filled with inquisitive minds who actually wanted to hear all the facts and figures rolling around in his head. "Actually, there's a theory—"

"That should probably wait until that case-closed dinner party," David Rossi interrupted.

"Party?" Mac perked up. "What party?"

Jonas and Judith quickly filled her in on the details.

"You and your team are welcome to join, of course," Jonas added cordially.

"Ah, we'll see," Mac smiled. "Lewis and Masterson may stay for the party—but as soon as this is over, I'm on a plane to Wisconsin."

"What's waiting in Wisconsin?" Judith asked.

"My daughter," Mac's face lit up with a proud warmth. "She's graduating from college in two days."

"Helluva timeline to close a case like this," Jonas gave a pained expression.

Mac lost her smile. "Yeah. I doubt we'll have it wrapped up by then. Unfortunately, my daughter's terribly understanding about the whole thing. I think the guilt would be easier to bear if she were actually mad at me."

David Rossi gave a hum of understanding. In so many ways, he saw the future for Hotch and his son—Jack never seemed to mind his father's absences, and he always seemed understanding and forgiving whenever Hotch's work pulled him away from prior commitments with his son. Dave knew his friend well enough to know that Jack's magnanimity only fueled Hotch's sense of guilt and shame.

"Anyways, enough about my sob story," Macaraeg launched herself easily onto her feet again, turning back to the laptop with a nod. "You guys are more than welcome to go back over the photos."

She leaned over the table again, showing them how to work the basics of the program, "Just click here to zoom in—you can drag the pointer like this to see another area. And right click once to reset back to the original photo size."

Her hip accidentally brushed against Rossi's hand. He was fairly certain he could feel her hip bone—she was even smaller than her loose clothing let on.

"Sorry," she offered quietly, but she didn't seem embarrassed (not that she had any reason to be).

He considered telling her that was the most amount of action he'd seen in a while, but for once, David Rossi kept his quips to himself.

Mac stepped back, allowing the others a better view of the screen. "If no one has any questions, I'd like to get back to work."

"Still no detonator?" Judith asked, almost absentmindedly. Her dark eyes were focused on the laptop screen.

"Not yet," Mac admitted with a light sigh. "But booms are funny things. If there was a detonator, it's trajectory could be determined by a number of factors—where it was on the IED, the angle of the contents, whatever else might have been in the way when it detonated. We'll keep looking."

"Thank you, Agent Macaraeg," Jonas spoke, his words infused with sincerity.

"You're welcome. And please—call me Mac."

With one last smile, she headed out of the room again.

"I like her," Judith Eden declared with a definitive nod of approval. "She's got pluck."

Then the Englishwoman's expression clouded, "Shame about her daughter, though."

"It is," David Rossi agreed quietly. The wheels were already turning.

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Derek Morgan didn't recognize the number on his screen, but he answered anyways, "Agent Morgan."

"Didja miss me, Tiger?"

That voice. Oh, that voice.

"Oh, Babygirl." He breathed her name like a prayer, the way some people said _Jesus_ when they were in pain. This did not escape her notice, but she didn't point it out aloud. "How're you doing, Li'l Mama?"

"Oh, you know. The body is bruised but the mind is willing." He could tell that she was grinning, by the tone of her voice. "What about you, my handsome hero?"

"I'm a thousand times better, now that I've heard the sound of your voice," he informed her, and he meant every word. "But whose number are you calling from?"

"Mine. For now. Will stopped to let me grab a burner phone—it's all very secret agent-y, isn't it?" She was obviously gleeful about the prospect. "I tried to get him to pay for it in cash, to add to the illusion, but he didn't."

Morgan couldn't help but laugh—that was his silly girl, trying to be "all very secret agent-y", as if she didn't already work for the FBI. And he couldn't deny the relief washing over his entire being. If Penelope was her usual bubbly self, all was right in the world. All the other stuff could be overcome, so long as his sunshine was still bright and smiling.

"Seriously, though—how's everyone else doing?" She lost the lighter tone, her words becoming filled with concerned warmth.

"They're all OK, Babydoll. Reid's still pretty keyed-up over JJ, but that's to be expected."

Penelope gave a small hum of agreement. "He's next on my call list—I wanted to give him a personal update. Of course, I'm also gonna text everyone to let them know this is my temporary number, until I can get my real phone back."

Morgan nodded, his mind turning back to the most important part of her statement, "An update? Has JJ's condition changed?"

"No. Not really. She's still in ICU, obviously. But she was conscious, though I'm pretty sure they knocked her out with some pretty awesome drugs as soon as we left. The doctor told Will that she seems to be taking the medication well, and the swelling in her skull is slowly going down—so no surgery, on that front. But they had to put pins in her eye socket and cheekbone, because it was so crushed."

He gave a wince of pain at the thought, and he could tell from Penelope's tone that she was doing the same.

Babygirl continued, "Right now, they're basically trying to let her body heal some more, before they can see if there's anything else they need to do. But our girl's a fighter."

"That she is," Morgan agreed quietly. He ran through his mental catalogue of all the fights that Jennifer Jareau had already fought and won, or at least survived. In the darkest corner of his mind, a small voice pointed out that it wasn't about whether or not she had the spirit to keep fighting, but rather if she still had the strength. Even the best warriors had to rest at some point, and it had been a very long time since JJ'd had anything even resembling a break.

But he kept those thoughts to himself. He'd die before he rained on his Babygirl's parade.

That parade had almost ended today. The realization stuck in his throat like a piece of glass.

"Penelope," his voice caught in a sudden rush of emotion. He felt the same strange mixture of emotions he'd experienced while sitting at the lunch table—an odd cocktail of need and fear and relief and confusion. "I'm just…I'm glad you're OK."

"Me, too," she was quiet, and he heard the tears in her voice. "And I'm glad it was you that found me."

"I always do," he reminded her. "It's my job."

"No, it's more than just a job," she returned gently. "It's your destiny."

She'd tried to make it a joke, but the subject matter was too serious.

"Then I guess from now on, I'll have to thank heaven and hell and all the stars for giving me such a fate," he replied, not even trying to mask the earnest emotion behind his words.

"Derek Morgan," Penelope's voice gave a flutter that was half-real, half-feigned. She adopted a Southern belle drawl, "You always do know exactly how to charm the ladies."

"Knight in shining armor, smooth operator—baby, I'm the full package."

"Yes you are, my delectable dish of manhood. Yes, you are."

He laughed, "Well, that's a new one."

"Well, you know what they say—variety is the spice of life. And I'm a very spicy girl."

"No argument there."

"Seriously, though. Thanks—for the whole saving my life thing. Again."

"Just repaying the favor, Babygirl. Now get some rest."

"I will. And I'll dream of tall, dark, handsome heroes coming to my rescue."

"Heroes? There better be only one hero in that dream."

"Well, there's only one in my heart—and that's what counts, right?" He knew she was grinning again, that coy, impish grin that always made him want to laugh and kiss the tip of her nose.

"I love you, you know that?" He couldn't stop himself from saying it (although it wasn't the first time he'd declared such a truth).

"I do." For some reason, she sounded almost heart-broken. "Talk to you soon."

She hung up before he had a chance to ask why she suddenly sounded so sad.

The scarier part was that he thought he might actually know the answer.

* * *

"_Look inside your heart and see written there __the name of her you love."_

_~Emilie Autumn._

* * *

_***Author's Note: Reid's facts on sommeliers come from a Yale study on the subject, along with studies done in Cardiff and Pennsylvania. His statistics on serial killers come from a 2014 report by Dr. M.G. Aamodt at Radford University.***_


	20. Suspicions

**Suspicions**

"_Suspicion is a virtue as long as its object is the public good, and as long as it stays within proper bounds."_

_~Patrick Henry._

* * *

_**FBI Main Drive. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Linnea Charles sucked air through her teeth sharply—a sure sign of her frustration. She paced the cordon slowly in a pitiful attempt to keep warm. She'd given up trying to strain her neck to see what was happening at the main building hours ago. Once the rescue teams had finished, all excitement seemed to ebb. And yet here she was, along with dozens of other reporters, anxiously waiting for something, anything, to send back to their editors for the online edition or report in front of their camera crew.

She'd forgotten her gloves this morning—truly, the weather wasn't quite cold enough for them, but that was only if you didn't plan to spend hours on end outside, away from any form of shelter. Sure, she could go back to her car, but there was the off-chance that she might miss something—and ever the reporter, she'd risk the cold rather than miss a scoop.

Slipping her phone out of her jacket pocket again, she pulled up her email, reading over that one message for what must have been the hundredth time.

Angrily, her numb fingers typed out a response:

_What the hell is going on? You said this was an exclusive—why are there twenty other reporters and news crews out here?_

With one last huff, she hit send.

She didn't expect a reply. She wasn't sure what this person's game was, but it was definitely a game.

She noted the email address again—it was the real deal, or at least it appeared to be. It even had the little tag at the bottom of the email that clarified it was sent from the email app on the person's phone. She'd given the info to the newspaper's researcher, a younger man who probably was a hacker in his free time, given his skill set and his ability to conjure up seemingly-unfindable information. No one ever really questioned how he got the info, and it was an unspoken-yet-understood office rule that they never looked too deeply into his background.

As if on cue, her phone rang.

"Tell me you've got something good, Salander," Linnae answered.

"If by 'good', you mean 'everything you could want and more', then yes," returned Karl Miramontz, who was better known as Salander, in reference to the hacker-heroine of Stieg Larsson's _Millenium _series. "I've got a name for the owner of the email address—and he checks out. He's a legit FBI agent."

"Alright then—lay it on me." She put Salander on speakerphone, pulling up the search engine on her smart phone. He gave her the name and she typed it in, her face scrunching in confusion (the name…it sounded so familiar….).

Her eyes went wide with shock when she saw the face that appeared in the search results.

"Oh my God," she felt the breath leave her lungs.

"What?" Salander's tone was filled with confusion.

"I know this guy."

* * *

_**Ninth Floor, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Alright," Judith Eden took a deep breath, leaning back in the seat directly in front of the laptop, which she'd taken over since Mac's exit. "Time to earn your keep, brilliant young doctor. See something the rest of us can't see."

Spencer Reid leaned closer in, squinting slightly as he genuinely tried to obey the command.

Jonas' phone twittered with a notification. He pulled it out of his pocket, announcing, "Text from Sura. So far, nothing on her hunt for local online purchases of acetone, hydrochloric acid, and hydrogen peroxide."

"That's because our UNSUB's smarter than that," Spencer informed them. "TATP takes time to make—you have to wait almost a week for the crystals to form. And all three ingredients can be found at local hardware stores—though, if he wanted a better concentrate of hydrogen peroxide, he'd be better off buying it from a beauty salon."

Jonas was obviously surprised, "You know a lot about explosives?"

"He knows a lot about everything," Rossi informed him dryly.

"I researched TATP years ago for a lecture," Reid explained, never looking up from the photos. "The perk of eidetic memory is that I retain everything."

"The more I learn, the more I'm entranced," Judith told him with a smile. Reid looked slightly flustered at the comment, and she ducked her head to keep from grinning.

Jonas' phone went off again. "It's Jack. One of the interns is here. He wants us to interview her."

Judith nodded—the fact that Jack and Jess didn't go ahead and interview her implied that this particular person was skittish, high strung. Judith and Jonas both had an innate knack for calming people and connecting easily.

"Then I suppose we'd best get back," Judith rose to her feet with a sigh. Offering one last smile toward the two BAU members, she added, "Let us know if you find anything."

By now, Spencer had slipped into the vacant seat, leaning forward to inspect the photos.

"Will do," Rossi nodded. With slight waves, Shostakovich and Eden left the room.

Rossi and Reid continued looking at the photos. Within a few minutes, Macaraeg appeared in the doorway again.

"Oh," she stopped, visibly surprised to see them. She jerked her thumb towards the hall, "I…I saw the other two leaving—I just assumed you were gone as well. Thought I'd come in here and stow everything away again."

"We'll put everything back where it belongs before we leave," Rossi assured her.

"A man who picks up after himself," Mac wore an amused smirk. "Well, I suppose there's a first time for everything."

"Rossi's a total neat-freak," Reid admitted, his tone distracted as he continued clicking through the photos.

Mac's wolf-like grin only deepened, "Of course he is."

Something in her smile kept Rossi from feeling defensive about her reply. Instead, he merely smiled back.

"Well, then," she made a slight gesture towards the laptop. "I guess I'll leave you to it."

"Actually, I think we're done here," Spencer informed her, glancing at Rossi for confirmation, who merely nodded in agreement.

"So…no glaringly obvious clues in the photographs?" Mac guessed, her face etched with resignation to the answer long before she even asked the question (after all, if there had been any such clues, she would have already found them).

"Sadly, no," Rossi admitted.

"I'm gonna head back down to the sixth floor and grab my coat—I think I'll stop by Penelope's office and get her phone as well," Reid told his team mate.

Rossi waved him on, "Go ahead. I'll get everything squared away here."

With one last nod of farewell to Macaraeg, Reid disappeared.

Mac moved towards the table, "You really don't have to, Agent Rossi—I was being snarky about the whole picking-up-after-yourself thing. It's not—"

"I know," he answered simply, not stopping his task of packing the laptop and its charger back into the carrying case. "But I wasn't kidding about leaving the place like we found it—you and your team have got enough on your plate, without having to pick up after us."

"Thank you," she returned, and she meant it. She knew when to step back and be gracious, and he liked that.

There was a beat of contented silence as Rossi finished packing everything away. Then, he conversationally asked, "So, which of your parents is the immigrant?"

"Excuse me?" She looked up in surprise.

"When you were talking about minorities in this country, you said _we_."

"Yes. But I could have been referring to being a woman—which is still considered a minority." She turned to leave the room, keeping her pace leisurely so that he could catch up.

"You could have," he admitted. "But you just proved that you weren't. If you had been, you wouldn't have used subjunctive language. You would have simply said 'I _was_ referring to being a woman.'"

She smiled, giving a slight shrug of acquiescence. "Alright, Mr. Profiler, you got me. But that only affirms your hunch—so what made you think so in the first place?"

"Your passionate response to the plight of minorities. That kind of zeal only comes from a first-hand witness—and seeing as you have held some elite positions within the Bureau, I'd guess that you weren't the one who really felt discriminated against personally, at least not on the level to inspire such a response. Which lead me to believe it was someone you care about very deeply—a parent, or perhaps both, who was or were a minority of some kind. Now, it doesn't take a profiler to realize that _Macaraeg_ doesn't quite have the same ring as _Smith_ or _Johnson_."

She merely smiled at this, her expression something between amusement and admiration. "My father was Filipino. He was a cop for thirty years. Received dozens of commendations for his bravery and actions in the line of duty, but never got promoted. The New York Police Department just couldn't quite get behind the idea of letting a man with an accent head a precinct."

"Is that why you went into the FBI?" By now, they'd reached the pelican cases lined against the wall, and Rossi set the laptop case back into its rightful place.

She seemed irritated at the question, her friendly body language suddenly becoming cold and shut-off. "I went into the FBI because I wanted to serve my country, and they wouldn't let women in the armed forces—at least not in the capacity that I wanted to serve. I didn't do it to prove anything, or to live out some latent dream of my father's. My brother lost his mind in Vietnam, and I was expected to sit at home listening to vinyls and worrying about my hair. I wanted more—to do more, to _be_ more. My family fought my decision to join the Bureau, every step of the way."

Unsure of what else to say, Rossi simply stated, "I'm sorry if I've offended you."

"It's not your fault," she assured him with another smile (but this one didn't reach her amber eyes). "I just don't like people trying to get inside my head, that's all. Like every good agent, I have severe trust issues and a built-in wariness towards head-shrinking of any kind."

That was a quip, a playful dig at the stereotypical Fibbie that had been perpetuated through history (and still held some truth), and Rossi understood that. He merely smiled, "I wasn't trying to head-shrink you. I just…wanted to get to know you."

"Why?" She stopped, turning to face him fully, hands setting on her hips.

"Why not?" He returned easily. "We're working a case together; I like to know the people I'm working with."

"Jeff Masterson isn't the only one who's read your books," she informed him. "And I've also been around the Bureau long enough to remember all the stories about you from before—so if you're looking for a little something-something to pass the time, you'd best keep looking, because I got over the thrill of messing around with coworkers a _long_ time ago."

She was abrupt—brutally so. Rossi couldn't help but admire her.

"It's not that," he assured her.

"I feel like I should be offended by just how quickly you responded," she gave a slight shake of her head in feigned dismay. "I mean, damn, Rossi—give a split second of hesitation. Let a girl down easy."

He laughed, "I thought you didn't want that."

"I don't. But it's nice to feel like you've still got it." She was grinning now.

"I'll remember that next time."

"Taking pointers from a crazy old broad—if all those tales I heard back in the day were true, then you're definitely slipping, sir."

"I do just fine," he informed her with mock haughtiness.

She was too busy grinning like a Cheshire cat. With a slight roll of her eyes, she turned back towards the crime scene, "Well, if you'll excuse me, Agent Rossi, I've got actual work to do."

"And what do you think I do? Just sit around shooting the breeze?" He retorted in feigned anger.

She gave one last look over her shoulder, arching her brow, "You tell me. You're the one standing in the hallway chatting it up while the rest of your team's back at the Academy."

He laughed. Adelaide Macaraeg had a certain aura about her—one that spelled trouble for a man like him.

He really, really liked trouble.

* * *

Spencer Reid was keenly aware of just how dependent on electricity this building was. Just as he'd done on the way up the staircase, he used the flashlight app on his new phone to light what would otherwise be a pitch-black death trap. Once he entered the BAU suite, the light from the outer office windows only offered a weak attempt at aid—by the time it filtered through Rossi and Hotch's offices, it barely illuminated the bullpen, the odd emptiness and dead silence giving the whole place a haunted feel.

Luckily, Dr. Reid was not a superstitious person.

His coat was patiently waiting on the back of his desk chair. He scooped it up, gratefully donning it (without electricity, this place was beginning to feel very chilly). Then he turned his focus to navigating his way through the dark maze of halls to find Penelope's phone.

Her office looked even stranger, dead and flat screens bouncing back the muted reflection of his phone's light. Without the constant humming of the processors, the room was so quiet that his ears almost ached with the sensory overload of complete silence.

"This just doesn't look right," he said to himself, letting his voice dispel the odd quietness.

Something wiggled at the back of his mind. Something someone had said….

Penelope. She'd said Cruz's computer was turned on. But Cruz was supposed to be at Capitol Hill, and Carrington hadn't made it in yet.

So who had been on the Section Chief's computer?

He quickly found his friend's phone and headed out the door. He was tired of questions with no answers.

* * *

Judith Eden gave a sigh as she looked up at the bleak sky—it was cold, and it was only going to get colder. Virginia's winters were rather mild compared to her native England, but that didn't make her immune to them.

"I think we're on the wrong track," she admitted quietly.

Jonas made a small hum—he didn't seem surprised, but he was waiting for her to explain herself.

Judith looked down at her feet as she continued walking, her brows furrowing as she tried to form her thoughts, "Well—I mean, yes, I definitely see where Curtis' case could influence our UNSUB—but Curtis took his professional loss as deeply as a personal one. The Bureau was his _life_. Don't get me wrong; I've met more than one agent who fit that bill…but what if…what if our UNSUB doesn't?"

"Are you suggesting that our UNSUB is retaliating for something more personal than being overlooked for a position?" Jonas asked, his tone impossibly neutral.

"Well, yes. I suppose."

Jonas had to smile at her response—Jude wanted to be wrong, but she couldn't deny the feeling in her gut.

"I mean…those photos." She shook her head slowly, face contorting in sadness. "The impact—that bomb wasn't just meant to scare people and cause a panic. It was meant to cause pain—the kind of pain you want to cause when you're hurt and you're lashing out. You hurt like that when you lose someone, not when you lose a job."

"Unless you're John Curtis." Jonas pointed out.

"Unless you're John Curtis," she agreed. "But Curtis' attacks were more about prowess, about proving his intelligence—the people he killed, that was just collateral damage, a necessary evil in proving his point. With the exception of Chief Strauss—which, given her ties to his career, is understandable."

"I have to admit—I've been thinking the same thing," Jonas ducked his head, clasping his hands behind his back as their pace slowed. They were getting closer to the Academy, but neither one was ready to finish the conversation—and they certainly didn't want to continue this discussion inside, where the likelihood of being overheard was much greater. "This seems like the opening salvo in a vendetta—a very personal one. But why target the FBI for a personal loss?"

"We lose people all the time in this business," Judith admitted tiredly. "Friends get transferred, or killed in action. We miss moments with our loved ones—like Mac missing her daughter's graduation—and those types of things can create irreparable distances. We lose relationships, due to the long hours and the emotional fallout from cases that our lovers can't understand or overcome."

"And on rare occasions, we lose our lovers in the line of duty," Jonas added, his tone weighted with a certain sense of knowing that filled his partner with dread. "Rare occasions where the Bureau is physically responsible for taking that person's life, for causing our loss."

Now Jonas was at her shoulder, his body nearly flush against hers, a sure sign that he was about to say something that he didn't want overheard (even though there wasn't anyone else around). Judith simply shook her head, "I know what you're going to say, Vichie—"

"And why do I get the feeling that you don't want to hear it?"

"Because I don't agree." She answered simply, resuming a more normal pace.

"Jude—"

"I don't agree," she repeated, this time a little more forcefully. "I interviewed him. I know he looks good for it on paper, but I promise you now, it's not him. It doesn't fit."

"Must've been some hell of an interview," Jonas muttered. "You've already lost all objectivity in regards to the man."

"Fuck you," she replied tartly. She pushed her long legs to move even faster, attempting to put distance between herself and her partner. Jonas was surprised—her stride almost eradicated any sign of her usual limp, and he actually found it hard to keep up.

"You saw the way David Rossi defended Erin Strauss—that was more than just a—"

"I know what it was—I'm not blind."

"So if you can see that he cared very deeply about her—that he still does—how can you not see—"

"Because it isn't there to be _seen_, Vichie. It isn't."

"He made sure he wasn't in the building when the bomb went off. He's inserted himself into the investigation—"

"We _asked_ for the BAU's help. There's a difference. And there wasn't a detonator, so there's no way he'd even know when the bomb would go off—much less where it'd even be when it did."

"Look at all the facts on the table. Tell me he doesn't look like a potential suspect."

There was a beat of silence. He knew that she wanted to say no, but she couldn't—she had an awful sense of honesty that way.

"Jude," Jonas' voice softened. "Who else has suffered a loss like that—one so directly tied to the Bureau? And who else also has first-hand knowledge of just how the Replicator worked? You have to admit, it's worth looking into."

"It's not him," Judith picked up her pace again, as if trying to outrun the thought.

"You lack conviction, Jude," he retorted, easily catching up to her. "You want to agree with me—in your head, you know you already do. But you won't let yourself."

"What does that even mean?" She gave a slightly incredulous snort, rolling her eyes.

"You're still mad about this morning," he didn't relent. "You're looking for any reason you can to disagree with me—even at the cost of this investigation."

"How positively petty," she spat. "It's beneath me and you know it."

"I know you're slipping, Jude—you've been slipping for weeks now. Ever since the Harrison case."

"Stop." She halted her stride, whirling around to face him so quickly that he nearly crashed into her. Her eyes were lined with tears, though not a single one dared to slip past her lashes. "You…you can't."

She didn't finish her sentence, but he understood—_you can't use that against me, you can't punish me for being affected by a case, not when you've had cases that affected you just as deeply before, too_.

She was right, of course. But she was also in danger—and that was the part that pushed Jonas Shostakovich further.

"You're falling apart. You need help. You are emotionally compromised, and now it's affecting every case you work on. You need—"

"What I need is none of your concern," she tried to sound harsh, but the tears made her sound heartbroken instead. Realizing how weak she seemed, she turned and began walking again. Her pace wasn't nearly as brisk this time—she didn't try to outrun Jonas, she knew how futile it was.

But he didn't try to catch up. He hung back, suddenly realizing that he'd pushed too far. He'd wanted her to see the truth, but he hadn't wanted to break her over the altar of reality. This was about fixing the damage, not increasing it.

By the time they reached the Academy's front entrance, he'd found the words he needed to say, "Jude—"

"It's not the same for you," she quietly informed him. "You have…outlets. You have Lise, you have your cozy little home in the suburbs. You can pretend you're part of a different life entirely. I don't have that—not like that, anyways."

"You're not alone," he returned gently.

"I never said I was." She stopped just before they reached the door. Her anger and her defensiveness was gone; all that remained was a tired and lifeless version of the woman whom Jonas had thought was inexhaustible. "You should call Lise. The poor darling's probably worried sick about you. As always."

She turned around again, opening the door with a sudden forcefulness. "We've got work to do. So if you could, set your bleeding heart aside for a few minutes and help me interview this kid. Do you think you can do that—or will you sacrifice our working dynamic, at the cost of this investigation?"

She was using his own words against him—and she had a point. Normally, they were able to have their disagreements and still work together in relative harmony. However, usually their disagreements were of a professional nature, and Jonas was making this personal. Jack Dawson was expecting them to walk through that door, ready to slip into their usual groove. Whenever it came to interviews, Shostakovich and Eden were invariably paired together—because they made a great team.

Given their current situation, it was ironic. However, Jonas Shostakovich never was one to appreciate literary moments, therefore he found zero humor in the irony. However, he knew that inwardly, Judith Eden was giving a small smile. She always was a crooked soul that way.

* * *

From his perch at the window, Jack Dawson watched the tense exchange between his two agents.

Something was wrong—it wasn't unusual for those two to disagree, but never so vehemently. It was time to get to the bottom of this. On today of all days, he needed his team at their best and highest. He couldn't afford to let this storm brew.

* * *

"_United we stand, divided we fall. Let us not split into factions which must destroy that union upon which our existence hangs."_

_~Patrick Henry._


	21. Medusa of the Psyche

**Medusa of the Psyche**

"_We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm - yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine."__  
~__E.M. Forster._

* * *

_**The LaMontagne House. Washington, D.C.**_

"Hey, Penelope. It's me."

Even with the worried warble in his tone, Sam's voice was unmistakable. Penelope Garcia couldn't help but give a small smile. She'd sat out on the front stoop to check her messages, hoping for a moment of privacy to call Sam as well—she wasn't the least bit surprised that she already had a message from him.

"I saw the news—I just want to make sure you're OK. Talk to you soon. Love you."

The voicemail ended. As much as she dreaded it, she listened to the next one.

"Pen. It's me again. Please—call me back."

Her heart sank at the urgency and worry in his tone. She'd put this man through the wringer, through no real fault of her own.

There was a third voicemail.

"Penelope. Penelope, I need you to answer the phone. I've…I've called the main office and nobody's….they said they can't release names until the family's been notified. Please. Just….please be OK. I love you."

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, hot and heavy as she thought about how worried he was—deeper memories of her parents' deaths and how their worry over her had caused it all rushed back into her mind and her veins like the worst kind of drug, a cocktail of guilt and shame and sorrow for her own actions.

She dialed Sam's number.

He answered on the first ring, his voice filled with concern and dread, "Hello?"

Of course, he didn't recognize the number—but after hours of silence, he was probably expecting the worse.

"Sam, it's me." She didn't know what else to say, how else to begin mending the stress she'd caused.

"Oh, thank god, Penelope," he breathed in relief. "I didn't—this isn't your number, and I thought—oh, god, I'm glad you're alive."

"Me, too. And I'm sorry I didn't call sooner. I couldn't—it's a long story."

"I have time. I have all the time in the world. Are you hurt? Do I need to come get you? What do I need to do?"

An involuntary smile spread across her face again at his kindness, at his obvious concern. "No, I'm—I'm fine now. I was…I was on the floor that got bombed."

"Oh my god—are you—"

"I messed up my ankle, but other than that I'm OK." That was a bit of stretch, but the poor man was already beside himself. There wasn't any use in making it worse. "But JJ's been badly hurt. I'm with her family right now."

"Do you need me to come get you?"

"No." In truth, that was the very last thing that she wanted. "I need to be here, with Henry. I just…I'm so sorry that I scared you like that—"

"It's OK. I'm just glad you're OK."

Henry was calling her from inside the house. She hated herself for how much she wanted to leave this moment with Sam. Her sudden reconnection to all the feelings inspired by her parents' deaths left her feeling disoriented and heavy with grief, and she hadn't been the least bit prepared for such an emotional sucker-punch. Normally, she could step back and deal with any onslaught of emotion, but today her defenses had already been worn down—she didn't have the strength left to even _begin_ sorting out the psychological Pandora's box she'd just inadvertently opened.

"I am sorry," she apologized again.

"I know." He answered quietly. He didn't assure her that it wasn't her fault, and for some reason, that stood out in her mind. "Where are you right now? I can take the rest of the day off, come be with you, whatever you need."

"I need to take care of my family," she admitted, her tone as low and gentle as his. "And I…I don't want you to see me like this, just yet."

"What do you mean?" The thought of not rushing to her side was obviously a painful one.

"I mean…I look like hell. And not in the cutesy-girly 'oh I have brushed my hair and I'm not wearing make-up' kind of way. I think…I think if you saw me like this, it would scare you."

"Scare me?"

Penelope tried to find the words to explain. "I know it doesn't seem like my job is very dangerous, or even exciting at times, but—but I don't think I'm ready for you to see just how dark the dark side of this job can be."

"What? Do you think I'll take one look at you and declare you can never go back to Quantico again?" His tone edged between playful surprise and genuine hurt.

"No," she tried to sound certain, but the fear crept in. "But I think you'd take one look at me and suddenly see me as something more fragile than I am."

"You are fragile, Penelope. In the best of ways."

Somehow, she couldn't see the compliment that he'd obviously meant it to be. Derek Morgan would've never said a thing like that.

_Not fair, Penelope. You can't compare the two. _

She knew it was true. Still, it didn't stop her.

"Go back to work," she informed him, infusing as much kindness into her tone as she could (suddenly, she was so tired, and everything, even speaking, took superhuman effort). Still, she pushed herself to sound lighter, less concerned, "I'm alright, I'm exactly where I need to be. Call me when you leave; I'll give you the address and you can pick me up—we'll order Chinese and I'll recount all the gory details if you want."

"You sure know how to make a man wait, Penelope Garcia," he tried to be light and playful, too. "You know I'll spend every second watching the clock."

She grinned. "Well, I hope this isn't the first time that the idea of an evening with me has had you anxiously awaiting its arrival."

"Oh, no, ma'am. Not in the least." He was definitely grinning now, too. His tone became gentler again. "I am glad you're OK. I'll see you soon—love you."

"Love you, too." She hung up the phone, taking a few moments to simply stare out at the traffic whizzing by.

She wasn't sure how she was supposed to feel right now, given the events of the day, but for some reason, she was certain that this wasn't the way she should feel after a conversation with her boyfriend.

Sam's reaction had been natural. Which meant the problem lie with hers. What was wrong? Why hadn't Sam been the first person she'd called? And why had she waited so long after getting her phone to call him?

She'd called Morgan the second that she'd walked out of the store with her new phone. She'd sent a text to the rest of her team immediately after.

She'd waited another twenty minutes to check her voicemail and subsequently call Sam.

Twenty minutes. Twenty more minutes of him thinking that she was dead, or hospitalized in traumatic condition. The others knew she was OK, yet she'd still called or texted to reassure them.

Why was their worry more important than Sam's?

She hated herself for the answer. She hated herself even more for the fact that she didn't really feel as badly about it as she should. She honestly couldn't swear that she wouldn't do it exactly the same way, all over again.

She felt guilty for not feeling guilty. And yes, she felt guilty for causing Sam such distress—but how much of that was rooted in her guilt over her parents?

Henry was calling again, despite Sandy's best attempts to shush him. Penelope gingerly pulled herself onto her feet with her crutch, relieved at the chance for some kind of distraction from her current thoughts. She was drained, physically and emotionally—she wasn't in the right frame of mind to tackle such issues, most of which would be daunting on a good day (and today was certainly not a good day).

"Aunt Nelope!" Henry cried out joyfully when she opened the door, as if he hadn't seen her in ages and she'd just returned decked-out like Father Christmas.

She beamed back at him, "Darling Nenry!"

As usual, he laughed at the nickname. He patted the space on the couch beside him, "We're going to watch a movie—I want you to sit next to me."

"Well, of course, mon ami—where else would I sit?" She snuggled up next to him, setting her crutch to the side.

"So…were you talking to your beau?" Sandy's eyes were dancing with mischief. Normally Penelope would laugh at her antics, but the mere thought of discussing Sam at this moment made her entire body feel like lead.

"Yeah," Penelope admitted with a sigh. "He's just…he was worried about it all, you know?"

"Well, of course," Sandy's expression contorted in compassion. "But he should know by now that you can definitely handle anything that comes your way."

She was trying to be reassuring, but it only reminded Penelope of her own hesitancy in letting Sam see her like this—because she didn't know if Sam truly knew that, if he could truly understand.

Thankfully, she was saved by the kiddo again as Henry piped up, "The movie's starting, Grandma!"

That was Sandy's cue to end all conversation.

"Fine," she rose to her feet. "I'll go make cookies."

Henry cheered in agreement before snuggling closer to his godmother. Penelope felt a lump in her throat at the tiny body molded against her own—his whole world had almost been shattered today, and the thought still filled her with fear.

Instead, she forced herself to focus on the good—her little Quantico family had survived, and she was here, with one of her favorite people in the entire universe. Like so many times before, she'd been given another chance.

She wasn't sure why fate had chosen to smile on her, but she was certainly grateful. By all accounts, she should still be that emotionally distant and spiteful person who decked out in goth gear and masqueraded as the Black Queen. Instead, fate had stepped in and given her all of this—this sweet boy at her side, this sweet family who was with her emotionally if not always physically, this life where she could use her skills for the greatest possible good.

And this kind, caring man who tried his best to be there for her, when she let him. Perhaps the emotionally distant Black Queen wasn't as far away from her true self as she thought.

The thought frightened her already-ragged mind. She pushed it away, wrapping her arm tighter around Henry. Shutting out Sam hadn't been intentional—at least not a first. She'd simply been in survival mode, as she should have been, given the situation. Her focus had been on her team, on the people who were truly in harm's way. She'd done the right thing. She had to believe that, and let it go, for now.

That, of course, was way easier said than done.

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"I'm not really sure why I'm here," Gentry Gillingham's voice shook with nervousness, her big blue eyes wide as she glanced around the room. Based on her eyebrows and lashes, her hair was naturally blonde, but currently it was a light lavender, with teal underneath. Jonas Shostakovich briefly wondered how on earth she'd ever gotten the internship at Quantico, with hair like that—perhaps she'd dyed it afterwards. Either way, she was definitely someone who would stand out in a room full of agents.

"You're not in trouble," Judith Eden assured her, her West Sussex accent imbuing the words with a level of soothing comfort. "In fact, we were hoping you could help us out."

"Me?"

Jonas had thought that her eyes couldn't get any wider, but he was mistaken—now they seemed the size of saucers, almost inhuman.

"Yes," Eden gave a small nod, angling her body forward in a confidential fashion, as if she were entrusting Gentry with a big secret. "You see, we don't really know how the whole mail delivery system works, between you and the other interns. We need a better understanding—"

"In order to figure out how this all happened?" Gentry finished, her face still quirking in confusion. "Are you—are you saying this thing was sent through the mail or something?"

Judith and Jonas were smart enough not to look at each other—that would be an easy read. However, Jonas still felt the slight, almost imperceptible flinch of Judith's shoulders as Gentry's query struck home. They'd decided ahead of time not to tell the incoming interns about Schuyler's death, or that the bomb had been sent through the mail. But now, it was obvious that this was definitely a dead-giveaway.

However, Jonas quickly saved the day, "No, no, nothing like that. We have to look at the whole picture, you see—and that requires analyzing every aspect of how Quantico operates."

"It seems boring and unnecessary," Judith assured her with a warm smile. "And it probably is—but better safe than sorry, right?"

Gentry Gillingham took a beat to size them up, weighing the truth behind their statements. It was obvious that she didn't entirely believe them, yet she had no way to refute their claims, so she went along with the story.

"Um, sure, I mean—I'm not sure how this is going to help, but whatever," Gentry gave a small shrug. With a deep breath, she began to explain, "There are three of us—me, Schuyler, and Marc. We have a rotating shift—like, Marc and I only come three days a week, on opposite days except for Friday, when we're both there, but Schuyler is here five days a week. On weekends, they have a clerk who runs the mail, I think. I mean, I've only been here for a few weeks, so…I'm not exactly sure."

"You're doing fine," Judith assured her.

"Few weeks, huh?" Jonas offered a smile. "Was your hair colored before or after?"

For the first time, Gentry Gillingham smiled. She produced her clearance tag—which had her with normal blonde hair. "I knew they wouldn't take me on if I looked like something out of Rainbow Brite. So I waited."

"Smart girl," Judith gave a nod of appreciation.

"I'm going to work for the FBI one day," she informed them, with a bright-eyed earnestness that was endearing. "My hair color doesn't have any bearing on my abilities."

"So you were proving a point?" Judith surmised.

"I _am_ proving a point," the young woman corrected. "Every day."

Judith Eden's smile broadened. Gentry had spirit; she liked that.

"So tell me, Gentry," Jonas shifted in his seat, taking a more comfortable position—remaining open, relaxed, friendly. "How does this thing work—if you and Marc work opposites and Schuyler works all week, what exactly do you guys do?"

"Well, I usually get here a little after Schuyler—"

"What time is that?"

"Around two-thirty. Schuyler gets out of class earlier than I do, so he's usually here by two. We sort the mail, deliver it, pick up any outgoing mail from each department—"

"Together, or…?"

"Nah," Gentry gave a quick shake of her head. "We divide and conquer, as Schuyler likes to say—like, I start at the bottom floor, and he starts at the top. He picks up the outgoing mail, I deliver the incoming. Then we meet back at the mailroom, add postage to outgoing mail—get it ready to ship out, you know."

Judith gave a hum of understanding. "So…incoming mail. How is that handled?"

Now Gentry's eyes became cautious (_damn, you clever little girl, _Judith thought, _you know what's really going on_). She gave a slight look of confusion, "I'm…not sure what you're asking. Like, handled how?"

"Well, just what the general protocol is," Judith gave a vague gesture with her hand. "We know it's scanned before it reaches you—but break it down for us. What exactly do you do before you deliver the incoming mail?"

They needed to ask if there was a secondary mail log. However, doing so would tip their hand—Gentry was already aware of the fact that they were taking too much interest in her job, and it wouldn't take much for her to understand why.

Gentry took a deep breath, as if trying to remember everything. "Well. I go in, take the mail off the table—there's this huge metal table in the middle of the room, you can't miss it. I enter the recipient and the sender in a notebook."

Again, Jonas felt the minute shift in Judith's frame, a brief change in her breathing. He didn't dare look at her.

Gentry continued, "Then I put it in the cart and head down to the lowest level."

Judith reached underneath the table to gently tap Jonas' leg. Then with a breezy smile at Gentry, she rose to her feet, "If you'll excuse me for a moment, Miss Gillingham—I think I need a glass of water. Would you like something?"

"No, thanks, I'm fine," Gentry offered a smile in return. Then glancing around, as if looking for a clock, she asked, "What time is it? I've got a huge test tomorrow, and I'm not supposed to be working today, so I'd planned to spend the day studying, and…"

"Don't worry," Jonas assured her. "We're almost through. You'll be on your way in no time."

Judith gave him one last look as she opened the door, making a circling motion with her index finger (_you're alright wrapping this up on your own?_).

He gave a slight nod (_of course, go_).

* * *

Across the hall, Jessalyn Keller and Jack Dawson had just begun interviewing Marc Race.

Jessalyn was sitting stock-still, as usual (she never took notes), but Jack was flipping through his small notepad, trying to keep his air as light and nonchalant as possible, "Alright, Mr. Race—"

"I'm sorry—it's pronounced Ray-SAH." The young man corrected.

"I'm the one who butchered your name, I should be saying _I'm_ sorry," Jack looked up, giving a slight smile of reassurance. Given Marc Race's dark features, he had to be Hispanic or Pacific Islander or something.

"Race," Jessalyn quietly tested the correct pronunciation on her tongue. She asked the question on Jack's mind, "What origin is that, if you don't mind my asking?"

As usual, Jessalyn was heightening her southern accent, softening her voice, widening her eyes to show her interest. And as usual, the person being questioned responded happily.

"Native American," Marc smiled. "Well, technically. When my family adopted a surname, they took the name of their oldest living relative—my great-great-grandfather was Race the Wind, or at least that was the English translation, so…my family adopted it as their surname. Out of respect. I'm not sure how the pronunciation changed—maybe that's how they sounded when they tried to say _race_ in English, I dunno."

"What tribe?" Jess asked.

"Cherokee."

"Shawnee," Jess gave a slight wave of her fingers, as if to say hello. With a wry grin as she motioned to her own blonde, pale features, she added, "Though I guess the Irish-German side won out, in the end."

Marc smiled at this—he was completely at-ease, and Jack was once again reminded of how good SSA Keller was when it came to interviews (particularly when the person being interviewed happened to be male).

He wondered how Jonas and Judith were getting on in the next room. As if an answer to his question, there was a quick, terse rap on the door.

"Excuse me," he gave a slight nod as he rose to his feet and opened the door.

It was Judith, her big brown eyes full of answers. He leaned further out into the hallway.

"We've got it," she whispered.

Jack nodded, turning back to Keller to give a slight tip of his head to indicate that he was going out into the hallway. She merely nodded, offering a small, hopeful smile.

He made sure the door was fully closed before he spoke, "You're sure?"

Judith gave a quick nod. "Gentry says they keep a notebook in the mailroom—a little low tech, but much easier to retrieve than hauling a hard drive out of there."

"Alright," Dawson glanced around the hallway. "I need to call Macaraeg—she wants to process the mailroom after they finish ground zero, so we need to check and see what we can and can't do before we go barging in. Then Jonas and I will go get it."

"Jonas?" Judith seemed confused. "He's still finishing up with Gentry Gillingham."

"Then you can relieve him. I've gotta call Macaraeg first anyways."

"But you and I are ready to go now—call Macaraeg on the way, she can meet us at the mailroom, if need be."

"I'm taking Jonas," Dawson repeated, this time adding a sternness to his tone that brooked not refusals.

Judith's eyes flickered to the ground at the unspoken reprimand, but they quickly rose again to meet his, searching for some kind of answer.

"Yes, sir," she spoke slowly, as if trying to unravel the meaning of her own words—of why she had to give them in the first place, of why he'd put her in this position.

Christ almighty, she looked so damn hurt that Jack actually felt a wave of irritation towards his own self for causing such distress. Those dark eyes were still searching every millimeter of his face, desperate for some kind of answer.

Jack turned and headed down the hall, before she could get far enough in to read his thoughts. Judith Eden had a remarkable habit for that, slipping inside your mind if you let her look at you for too long. She could make a mountain tremble with her scrutiny, though it was never fierce or reprimanding the way some people's gazes could be—no, hers was something softer and sadder, born out of some overwhelming need to understand. And honestly, it worked better than the harsher looks—her distress made you instantly want to explain every reason for every action you'd ever made, in some attempt to chase away the ghosts in her eyes, to bring back the fireflies that often danced in their dark depths. Those eyes could call forth choruses from stones. A Medusa of the psyche, in reverse.

* * *

"_You are relentless in the way that you know me, and I am a sheep when it comes to explaining—I wish that I could keep you happy, I wish that I could keep you young….Please forgive me for the distance, but I'm an Iron Man."_

_~Nico Vega, Iron Man._

* * *

**_*Author's Note: Thanks so much for all the reviews, faves, follows, etc.*_**


	22. Breadcrumbs

**Breadcrumbs**

"_Insight is not a lightbulb that goes off inside our heads. It is a flickering candle that can easily be snuffed out."__  
__~Malcolm Gladwell__._

* * *

_***Author's Note: TWO updates in one week? Try not to get spoiled, y'all...seriously, though-merci beaucoup for all the love being shown so far.***_

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"Mommy, Mommy…" A voice was calling her—but it wasn't Henry's voice.

"I'mm-hmm…" The sound of her own voice was harsh and foreign as it reverberated in her head, dragging her further out of her drugged and dreaming state.

The voice was gone. She needed to hear it again. She needed to know what the child wanted—her child, but not her child, not her Henry.

_You're forgetting something_, her inner voice seemed clearer, more familiar. _The case needs your help and you're forgetting a clue—the clue that could solve it all…why aren't you helping? They need you, why are you still here? Get up!_

"Jennifer, Jennifer, stop—sit back, relax." Another familiar voice, but she was still too tired to open her eyes and see the face. "Jennifer, it's Dr. Mellinger. I'm just here to check up on you. I need you to stop trying to get up. You're not ready for that yet."

JJ tried to speak, but she knew that her words were garbled, muffled by the heavy haze of drugs that was still overpowering her system.

"Shh…it's OK."

_It's not, it's not, it's not…I have to help the team…I have to tell them…what do I have to tell them? What am I forgetting?_

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Spencer Reid strode into the room like a man on a mission. Scott O'Donnell and Matt Cruz both sat up a little straighter, neither one sure whether to be encouraged or concerned by the young doctor's demeanor.

Thankfully, Dr. Reid was a direct man, who didn't waste time with pleasantries, locking his gaze on Cruz as he stated, "Penelope Garcia mentioned that when she went into your office this morning, your computer was on. Did you come into the office before you went to D.C.?"

"No," Cruz's face filled with confusion. "I turned the computer off when I left last night. Maybe Dora—"

"Carrington hadn't arrived yet—she was stopped by the Marines before she could even enter the building." Reid informed him, quickly but not rudely.

O'Donnell gave a slight shake of his head, "Maybe Garcia was mistaken—"

"She wasn't. She was very adamant about it, actually," Spencer watched both men, taking in every micro-expression between them.

"My office should have been locked," Cruz spoke slowly, his dark brows furrowing in a mixture of dread and concern. "If Dora wasn't there yet, Penelope shouldn't have been able to even open the door."

Now O'Donnell turned his full attention to Cruz, "Who else would have that kind of access to your office?"

"Anyone, really," Cruz admitted. "I mean, Dora keeps a key in her desk, which is locked whenever she leaves at night—but the key to her desk is simply hidden in the file cabinet behind her desk, so anyone who's got a little time to search for it could find it pretty easily."

"Not including custodial staff or security personnel," O'Donnell added, his tone lined with frustration.

"We need to check the server," Cruz's face lit up with fear. "I haven't logged onto the system since last night, but if someone got into my office and turned on my computer, maybe they also had my login information—"

"But what would they be looking for?" O'Donnell wondered aloud. "And how could it tie in to the bombing?"

"I don't know," Cruz admitted. "But we can't afford to overlook any suspicious activity, no matter how unrelated or trivial it seems."

O'Donnell hummed in agreement.

Jack Dawson entered the room, looking slightly surprised to see the three men in deep discussion. He stopped, waited a beat, then announced, "We've got confirmation on the secondary mail log. I've just talked to Macaraeg; she's going to meet us in the mailroom to do a preliminary evidence sweep. Hopefully it'll tell us where this bomb was headed."

"We've got another development as well—whether or not it's related, only time will tell," O'Donnell admitted. With a slight nod towards the behavioral analyst, he continued, "Dr. Reid has just brought it to our attention that apparently someone was in Matt's office just minutes before the blast."

Dawson's blank expression bespoke the fact that he had no idea why that was even relevant, much less a development.

"I was in the District all morning," Cruz reminded him. "And when I left my office last night, I had everything shut down and the door locked. This morning, the door was open and my computer was on—but my secretary hadn't even arrived yet."

Dawson suddenly understood. He also understood why O'Donnell had been hesitant to state outright that the two incidents were linked—it just didn't make sense. Still, he found himself focusing on the practical side of things, "What's the implication here—that whoever it was now has access to sensitive files?"

"That's what we need to find out," O'Donnell informed him. "We'll have to access the system and see if anyone logged in under Cruz's information."

"Roza can do that," Dawson offered, pulling his cell out of his back pocket.

Jonas Shostakovich entered the room, "I'm ready when you are, boss."

He noted his team leader's distracted expression, and merely took a step back, waiting. Jack gave him a signal, acknowledging his presence and silently decreeing that he'd fill him in as soon as possible.

"Sura," Dawson spoke into the phone.

"Jack, darling. I know I'm a miracle worker, but even miracles require a little patience," Sura Roza's amusement was a bit strained, as if she were forcing herself to sound cheerful.

"I need you to do something else for me first."

"Jesus, Jack, how am I supposed to track down a missing agent if you keep derailing me with side-errands that any third-rate analyst could do?" All false cheerfulness had fully disappeared.

"Because this is important, and I want this kept quiet—I trust you and your discretion."

"What's happening?" Her irritation disappeared as well. The seriousness of Jack's tone put her on alert.

He retold the story of Cruz's mystery guest, and told her to look into it.

"Consider it done, sir." She didn't even offer a Titanic-based retort. A sure sign of the gravity of the situation.

During all of this, Jonas' stern features filled with confusion. He waited until Jack finished the phone call before glancing around the room to ask, "And we really think this is related to the bombing?"

"Better safe than sorry," Spencer Reid stated simply, tucking his hands into his pockets.

"C'mon," Jack lightly tapped Jonas' chest. He nodded in O'Donnell's direction, "Hopefully, we'll come back with some answers. I think we're due, don't you?"

"Yeah," O'Donnell gave a heavy sigh. "It's about damn time we answered at least one question around here."

Sadly, no one in the room looked particularly optimistic.

* * *

Derek Morgan glanced at his phone again. He wanted to call Penelope, to make sure she was still alright—as if somehow her condition had changed in the hour since he'd spoken to her. Whenever he'd been actually working on the case, he'd had very little problem pushing his worry to the side (a skill developed over many, many years of practice), but now that they were merely standing around waiting for another shoe to drop, his mind seemed overwhelmed with nothing but his blonde Babygirl.

"Everything alright?" Hotch's face was filled with concern. Obviously his worry had seeped into his body language.

"Yeah, I just—yeah," Derek shrugged it off, giving a slight shake of his head.

"Have you talked to Savannah today?" That was Hotch's attempt at subtly saying _call your girlfriend_. But as usual, subtlety wasn't exactly his strong suit.

"Nah, not yet," Derek slipped his phone back into his pocket, subconsciously furthering himself from the inevitable moment when he would have to call Savannah. "I honestly thought she'd call me, after she saw the news—but nothing, not even a text."

"Maybe she's in surgery," Hotch offered helpfully.

"It's possible," was his friend's vague reply. To be perfectly honest, Derek Morgan knew she wouldn't call, even if she was aware of the situation—he didn't exactly know how he knew this, but he did, just as surely as he knew his own name.

Hotch sensed Morgan's melancholic inner thoughts, because he easily directed the conversation, giving his friend a bit of distraction, "Speaking of people checking in—Emily knows about the attack. She sent me a text, asking if everyone was alright."

"And what'd you tell her?" Morgan couldn't quite wrap his head around this new development—his mind instantly went back to Rowena Lewis' comment about Emily referring to Hotch as _Aaron_.

"That we were all OK," Hotch admitted quickly, silently acknowledging the lie within his statement. He took a moment to look at Morgan, as if seeking agreement, "I couldn't tell her about JJ and Garcia via text—she deserves more than that, and I don't have the time to call her just yet."

"Understood," was Morgan's only reply, though he kept scrutinizing Hotch's expression for something more. Not that Hotch wasn't a good guy, or that Prentiss didn't get on well with her former supervisor, but it would have made more sense if Emily had contacted someone she was closer to—like Penelope, or Derek himself.

Unless Hotch and Prentiss were closer than they let on. _Much_ closer. _Intimately_ closer.

Aaron Hotchner turned away from Derek Morgan's scrutiny, slightly worried and definitely annoyed at what he'd seen in his friend's face. There was no way Morgan could know such a thing, and he'd be damned if he gave the profiler any ammunition.

David Rossi re-entered the room, leisurely stirring a cup of coffee. He glanced around, surprised that Reid hadn't made it back yet. "Wonder Kid's not here?"

"He was supposed to be with you," Hotch reminded him, slightly amused. Typical Reid, wandering off.

"He went to get Penelope's phone." Rossi shrugged off the unspoken reprimand. "I figured he'd make it back before me, since I went to get coffee."

"And you didn't bring back any for the rest of us?" Kate piped up, crossing her arms over her chest in feigned disapproval. "Rude."

He seemed completely unfazed by the insult. David Rossi was like a cat that way—he had a knack for remaining completely unruffled when he chose (a knack that he didn't always employ, but still, it was there).

"It's Academy mess hall coffee," he informed her.

"Oh. Nevermind."

"Yeah. That's what I thought," he gave a dry smirk at her lackluster response.

Wonder Kid appeared in the doorway, his brow furrowed in concern. "Guys, we might have something."

Everyone perked up at the pronouncement. Spencer Reid quickly filled them in on the situation with Cruz's office, and then fell silent, waiting for their opinions.

"That's it?" Rossi seemed unimpressed.

"Well, that's more than we had," Reid reminded him.

"There's at least half a dozen legitimate and non-conspiracy theory related reasons to explain this," Morgan took Rossi's side.

"Really? Half a dozen? List them," Reid challenged, surprised that his team didn't seem to note the same significance as O'Donnell and the others had.

Never one to back away from a challenge, Derek Morgan held up his fingers and began counting them off, "Cruz was mistaken. Cleaning crew. Another secretary who happens to know where Carrington keeps the keys who needed to look at his day-planner. Another higher-up that needed access to a file kept in his office, who also knew where the key was. Security doing a random check. Penelope was mistaken—"

"Do you really believe that?" Reid shot back.

"No, but that wasn't part of the challenge—you said to list half a dozen explanations, not to declare whether I truly believed them." Morgan returned easily, setting his hands on his hips again. "I'm just saying, man, it's possible that we're getting worked up over nothing."

"We're not in the position to turn down any leads at the moment," Hotch reminded him quietly. The seriousness in his tone brought everyone back into line.

Callahan was the one who broke the tension, glancing over at Morgan with a slightly incredulous look, "You really think Cruz keeps a _day-planner_? What is this, 1987?"

Morgan didn't even try to explain, rather holding up his hands in mock defeat and shaking his head. Hotch was right—he shouldn't shoot down a potential clue, no matter how far-fetched it seemed.

"Fine," Morgan gave a heavy sigh, turning his attention back to Reid. "So what are we supposed to do about it?"

The younger man looked slightly perplexed. "Well, for now, we wait. And even if they do find something…it's not our case, so I'm not sure _we_ really do anything about it."

"God, I hate this," Kate Callahan sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "The waiting, the not knowing, the playing second fiddle. All of it."

"Trust me, you're not alone." Hotch assured her, his own grim expression lined with frustration.

So they waited. As if they had any choice in the matter.

* * *

Jessalyn Keller made a sharp noise of pain as she slipped off her heels, gingerly setting her feet on the chair she'd set in front of her as a makeshift footrest. She wiggled her poor abused toes, which were sending shrieks of pain through her joints at the torture of being stuck in her shoes for so many hours, most of which were spent on her feet.

"Y'alright?" Judith Eden's voice was lined with concern. Jess glanced over to see Judith on the other end of the couch, dark eyes peering over her reading glasses in concern.

"I'm fine." The younger woman gave a small smile of assurance.

"You want me to get some warm water and Epsom salt?" Judith persisted. "It'll help."

Jess gave a dry huff, "And where would you get that from?"

"I dunno," her team member gave an easy shrug, not concerned by the question in the least. "I'll ask Bradley to find some."

_Bradley_. Of course, Judith Eden was already on a first-name basis with Cpl. Ryan, the Marine in the hallway. The older woman had an uncanny knack for making friends. _Never meets a stranger_, that's how Jess' mother would put it.

"It's OK," Jess waved away the thought.

"Are you sure?" The compassion behind Judith's question elicited a smile from her partner.

"I'm fine, Jude. For heaven's sake, focus that intensity on finding our UNSUB."

"I don't care if the UNSUB comes up lame. I need _you_ to be able to have my back if and when we hit the field again."

"'Comes up lame'? Good grief, you make me sound like a horse."

"You're lucky you're not," Judith informed her dryly, returning her attention to the file in front of her, pushing her glasses back up her nose. "I'd have already taken you out back and shot you."

"Remind me to put arsenic in your tea next time."

This earned her a smirk curling at the corner of Eden's mouth.

There was a beat of contented silence. However, Jess noticed that Judith still hadn't turned the page.

"I just don't understand why he took Jonas instead of me," Judith admitted in a quiet voice, though she took great pains to make it sound as nonchalantly curious as possible, instead of the confused hurt that Jess knew was truly behind the statement (though it wasn't because Eden was transparent, but rather simply because Jess knew her well enough to know how her brain worked).

Jess kept her own gaze focused on her work as well, knowing Judith didn't want her full scrutiny at the moment. However, she chose the path of brutal honestly, "Probably because he wanted to find out what the hell is going on between you two. Jack knows he'll get a straighter answer from Jonas."

Now Judith turned to her team member, her face lined with horror at the thought of being the center of such a conversation. "Is it—was it that obvious?"

"Just to us," Jess assured her. She looked up as well, her own expression one of compassionate understanding. "We've been a team for years now, Judith. We know each other. To top it off, we've just spent an entire week in the field together, spending every waking moment side-by-side. We're even _more_ highly attuned to each other's shifts in mood. We've felt the storm brewing between the two of you since the mobile command center."

Judith ducked her head, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth at the statement. Jessalyn couldn't stop herself from reaching out to place a warm hand of assurance on Judith's knee, quietly decreeing, "It's going to be OK. Jack just wants to know you're alright."

"Well, obviously, he already thinks he knows the answer to that question," Judith returned sourly, though her bitterness was fueled by hurt. "Otherwise, he would have asked me outright, instead of pussy-footing around with Jonas."

"He just doesn't want to upset you further," the blonde's voice was lined with concern. "You know how Jack is—I'm pretty sure we all picked up on the idea that Jonas is the antagonist, this time around."

Those last three words pulled a wry smile from Judith's twisted lips. It was true—Jude and Vichie, as they often called one another, didn't always see eye to eye. Their connection had been deep and immediate, and with it came all the usual pitfalls of coworkers who were truly too close for comfort or practicality. They never had knock-down-drag-outs, or really any kind of interaction that could have been seen as an actual fight, but there were moments of quick, biting comments or sulking or various other minute indications of discord in their tone and body language. They'd never let their personal feelings affect their ability to do their jobs, but they'd never exactly hidden whenever they weren't happy with one another, either.

And Judith had understood what Keller had meant by the phrase _you know how Jack is_. Jack Dawson was an assertive man, who wasn't afraid of conflict, but he also didn't like unnecessary tension within his little unit. Their job was stressful enough—he didn't need the added stress of having half of his team out of sync and at-odds.

"Besides," Keller's cupid's bow mouth curled in amusement. "If Jack asked _you_, you would lie and say it wasn't anything, because you wouldn't want to get Jonas in trouble. Jack's a seeker. He _has_ to have the truth."

The older woman smiled in agreement. Of course, there was more to it than that—Jack Dawson was a noble man, with a highly developed sense of justice. If he thought that Jonas was upsetting Judith, he would sort it out immediately. He would have done the same if the tables were turned—except he _would_ have come to Judith, because Jonas would lie and cover for her as well, just as Keller predicted Jude would do for him in this particular instance.

So it did make sense that he'd take Jonas with him, instead of Judith. Because if he'd confronted Judith about the situation, she would have brushed away his concerns—she'd never tell him what it was about, much less confirm that Jonas was the one antagonizing her. At least Jonas would tell the truth (a habit of his that was both wonderful and aggravating, depending on the situation), and he'd dutifully take his reprimand from Dawson, without fuss or contradiction.

Judith felt a glimmer of fear in the pit of her stomach—what if Vichie was _too_ truthful? What if he not only admitted to being the offense in this round, but also to exactly what this particular disagreement was about?

Truly, it wasn't about Jack Dawson discovering the truth, so much it was about _how_ he discovered it.

"Hey," Jessalyn's quiet voice brought her back to the present moment. "It's gonna be OK."

Judith offered a small smile, giving a quick nod of agreement.

Jessalyn knew there was a lie in her acquiescence. Still, she'd take it as a win.

"Want some more tea?" She swept her still-healing feet back onto the floor.

Judith Eden gave a huff, "So you can slip me some arsenic?"

Jessalyn gave a theatrical shrug, "Only a little bit. I don't want you to keel over just yet—I need you to solve this case first. But I can start building it up in your system."

"Bit by bit," Judith gave a nod of approval, still grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Smart girl."

"That I am," Jess agreed, heading over to the coffee maker. She turned back around, widening her eyes in faux innocence as she pushed her voiced into a breathy pitch, "Should I make a cup to bring to Bradley?"

She breathed the last word like a love-struck school girl chanting her crush's name, and Judith Eden actually cackled at the delivery.

"God, no. I've already threatened to flash him; wouldn't want him getting the wrong ideas entirely."

"You _what_?" Jessalyn's face was the epitome of shocked disapproval.

"It was a threat, not an enticement," Judith pointed out.

"Interpretation is up to the receiver, not the deliverer," the younger woman returned, arching her eyebrow in incredulity.

"He's a _child_. He'd die of shock—and even if by some miracle, he did survive, he wouldn't know what to do about it."

Jessalyn gave a slight smirk of disagreement. "It's the young ones you've gotta watch out for. They're the most…_enthusiastic_."

The brunette laughed loudly again. "You sound like the voice of experience, Agent Keller."

"I've seen some things," she agreed with an expression that stated she wasn't even sure of exactly what she'd seen. This only made Judith laugh harder.

Jessalyn returned to her tea-brewing task. She'd taken the worried look from Judith's eyes; she'd done her job.

Now all she could do was wait for Jack and Jonas' return—though she certainly had plenty to keep her busy until then.

* * *

_**Mailroom, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"So…you wanna tell me what the hell's going on with you and Jude?"

Jack Dawson's voice was quiet, neutral, unassuming—yet it filled the darkened hallway effortlessly. Jonas Shostakovich looked up at his unit chief, whose face was shrouded in shadow. They were currently standing in the hallway outside the mailroom, while Adelaide Macaraeg did a preliminary scan of the room. Since they were on the first level basement there was no natural light at all—just the beams from their own small flashlights, plus Macaraeg's headlamp, which was currently bent over the large metal table in the mailroom.

Mac was too absorbed in her work to pay attention to the discussion going on outside, but Shostakovich was still surprised—honestly, he'd expected this question the second they'd left the Academy.

"Nothing," Jonas' first reply was sheer instinct. However, he corrected himself, "Jude's shaken up by the Harrison case. Her nerves are still raw and it's starting to show."

"She's a big girl. She's had cases like that before," Dawson wasn't being patronizing or calloused, merely factual. He had greater faith in Judith Eden's ability to compartmentalize and do her job—he'd watched her do just that for almost a decade now.

"I know. But sometimes, you have that one case that hits that one nerve you weren't prepared for," Jonas returned softly. "You get blindsided. It happens."

"And that's all this is?" The doubt was evident in Dawson's voice.

"Yeah. I think so." This was an outright lie, but even an honest man like Jonas Shostakovich had his limits—the other half of this equation wasn't his to tell, and he'd sacrifice his own moral integrity before betraying the woman who was probably his closest friend.

"Then why does this seem so personal between you two?"

"Because I made it personal," Jonas admitted with a heavy sigh (not entirely untrue). "I have suspicions…about David Rossi. She disagreed. I pulled a low blow—said she was emotionally compromised, blamed it on her hang-up over the Harrison debacle."

Dawson gave a small hiss, as if he could feel whatever pain Judith Eden must have inflicted upon her darling Vichie for such a breach. "You can't play dirty like that—not with Jude."

"I know."

"But you did anyways."

"Heat of the moment. You know how it is. She gets under your skin."

Dawson hummed in understanding. Then in a wry tone, he added, "You're lucky you escaped with your life."

"That remains to be proven," Jonas reminded him. "Just because she didn't take my head off then and there doesn't mean she hasn't got some kind of vengeful plot up her sleeve."

"True." Despite the darkness, Jonas knew his boss was smiling now. His tone returned to seriousness, though, "So, is everything sorted between you two?"

"No. Not yet. But I'll talk to her when we get back."

"As _soon_ as we get back. You know Jude—she doesn't function well when she feels like the outsider." Jack Dawson's voice was lined with compassion. Jonas Shostakovich might be Judith Eden's closest friend, but Jack Dawson had known her longer and probably knew her better, because he'd always been able to approach her behavior with the clinical gaze of a superior officer assessing his agent, no off-book feelings involved. Over the years, he'd come to see her as more than that, but he still retained his ability to see her through a neutral lens, when the need arose.

"Alright, boys," Mac gave a grand flourish towards the open door of the mailroom. "All yours."

Jack Dawson gave a quick nod of thanks—honestly, Mac had done a much quicker job than he'd expected, scanning the room for chemical residue and checking for any obvious bits of evidence.

Jonas and Jack instinctively lifted their flashlights back to shoulder-height as they entered the room, their beams bouncing around as they searched for anything resembling a log book.

"Over here," Jonas moved towards a small desk in the corner. He held his flashlight between his teeth as he slipped on a pair of latex gloves (courtesy of SSA Macaraeg) before picking up a black binder. He flipped it open, giving a small noise of triumph at the sight of neatly ordered rows—_sender, recipient, date received_.

"Awesome. Now let's find the last entries," Jack was at his shoulder now, holding his own flashlight up to help illuminate the pages.

Within a matter of seconds, Jonas found the last page of entries.

Jonas Shostakovich's entire body went still. It didn't take Jack very long to figure out why.

Sender: _H.J. Raymond_. Recipient: _Behavioral Analysis Unit_.

Jack Dawson's stomach turned to stone.

"Well," his tired voice seemed to shatter the stillness of the darkened room. "I think we need to talk to the BAU again."

* * *

"_The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery."__  
~__Anaïs Nin__._


	23. Tighten the Noose

**Tighten the Noose**

"_A little comic relief in a discussion does no harm, however serious the topic may be. (In my own experience the funniest things have occurred in the gravest and most sincere conversations.)"__  
__~C.S. Lewis__._

* * *

**_*Author's Note: There was a recent review from Jen-since it wasn't linked to an account, I couldn't reply back, so Jen, here's your answer to the request for another Hotchniss story-absolutely. And this particular story is going to have some more nice moments between them, too!*_**

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"May I _please_ interview Agent Morgan this time?" Judith Eden's long arm shot up like a child anxiously trying to catch the teacher's attention.

Jack Dawson gave her a look of feigned disapproval, though his eyes were smiling (_down, girl_).

Jessalyn Keller's expression was not feigned, and it was not pleased.

"What?" Judith noted the blonde's response. "That man is a masterpiece—why shouldn't I get a chance for closer inspection?"

Shostakovich merely shook his head, eyes rolling heavenward. Keller still silently disapproved.

"Oh, don't tell me you've already called dibs on him," Judith gave an exasperated sigh.

"I would prefer if this conversation stayed professional," Keller returned a bit forcefully, crossing her arms over her chest. "_Agent_ Morgan has been nothing but helpful and courteous, perhaps we could return the favor—without reducing him to a pretty face with nothing to contribute?"

Ah, there it was. The nerve that had been inadvertently hit—Jessalyn Keller was a beautiful woman, the kind that wrecked trains of thought and garnered stares and lascivious smirks without effort and certainly without provocation. But she also had brains and had busted her much-coveted ass to get where she was today, and she hated being dismissed as little more than set dressing, just because her physicality, over which she had little control, deemed her somehow incapable of also possessing intelligence. She abhorred being objectified, and she didn't like seeing it happen to others, either.

"I apologize," Judith didn't try to shrug away the accusation, but rather accepted it head-on. She gave a small smile, "Just trying to infuse a little lightness into the moment. I never meant to imply any disrespect to Agent Morgan's abilities or contributions."

Keller merely gave a curt nod of acknowledgement and acceptance, knowing that her words had been chastisement enough—it was guaranteed that Judith Eden wouldn't make any more quips about SSA Morgan for the rest of the case (at least not about his looks, though she'd probably still poke fun at his uptight demeanor, because that's how Eden was).

"Still," the Englishwoman shifted in her seat, turning her attention back to Dawson. "I would like to interview him. He seems like a tough nut to crack—I'd like to know my charms haven't fallen into disuse."

Dawson nodded in agreement. Honestly, he was going to hand Morgan off to Eden anyways. The team was going to be undoubtedly on-edge and hostile, once they realized they were under the microscope, and he needed each behavioral analyst paired with the Flying J who seemed the best to diffuse their inevitable ire.

"Eden has Morgan. Keller, you'll take Callahan and Reid—separately. I'll handle Hotchner again. Jonas, that means you'll have Rossi."

Judith sat up at the last assignment, a brief flicker of concern in her dark eyes. So Vichie hadn't been lying about the disagreement over David Rossi—or Judith's apparent bias. Dawson would be lying if he said that he hadn't paired Jonas with Rossi just to see the woman's reaction—but he could also admit that despite his suspicions, Jonas Shostakovich would remain a neutral interrogator, and his calming presence would be a good counter-weight to Rossi's more volatile nature, as exhibited during the discussion over Strauss.

Jonas had already informed his unit chief of his theory about Rossi's potential as a suspect, and like Eden, Dawson couldn't quite refute the idea (though, like Eden, he also couldn't make himself fully buy the theory). Jonas Shostakovich was the kind of man who suspected everyone of everything, and perhaps it was this trait that gave him the edge over his colleagues in this matter. He saw the long shots, could contemplate every angle and find a motive for every person, no matter how "out there" it seemed. Sometimes he just seemed like a loon. But sometimes he hit the nail on the head—the nail that no one else could even see.

Only time would tell which category this particular scenario fell into. But Jack Dawson found himself hoping for the former.

* * *

_**Ninth Floor, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Roe and Jeff were taking a break when Mac returned to the ninth floor.

"Happy hunting?" Roe offered a hopeful smile, leaning forward slightly. She and her partner were currently seated against the wall in the hallway, both sets of legs stretched out to alleviate the inevitable cramps and numbness that came from crouching for hours on-end.

"Well, we found something—but I don't think it falls under _happy_," Mac admitted, giving an exhausted sigh as she slumped against the opposite wall, sinking down to mimic their seating posture. She barely lifted her feet off the ground, rolling her ankles and wincing slightly as they popped in protest. She continued, "The lead investigators found the secondary mail log. The last entry was a package to the BAU."

"Oh my god," Roe's stomach dropped. "And they're—they're sure?"

"That package wasn't listed on the official intake form at the front desk." Mac shook her head, her face lined with fatigue. "Roza checked—she went back as far as three days ago, cross-referencing every entry in the secondary log with the primary log on the server. That package is the only one that isn't accounted for on both logs."

Jeff Masterson shook his head in incredulity. "It's the Replicator, all over again."

"We've got to get back down there and start dusting for prints," Mac announced, her shoulders slumping wearily at the mere thought of such a task. "Though the upside to an attack inside the FBI is that everyone who's supposed to be here will already have fingerprints on file."

She frowned slightly, realizing the flaw in her own logic, "Of course, if our bomber is an agent, then he will have some perfectly excusable reason for having his prints there. Dammit."

"Who was the package from?" Rowena asked.

"I don't know," Mac admitted, looking slightly perturbed by her own lack of knowledge. "I wasn't really supposed to know as much as I do—I just overheard Dawson's phone conversation with Roza. I get the feeling that Dawson wants to keep a lid on this clue for as long as possible, or at least until he figures out how to handle it."

"So…does the BAU know?" Jeff's voice was lined with concern and caution.

"I don't think so," Mac shook her head. Then, with a sterner edge, she added, "And it's not our place to tell them. I know you two are close with the BAU, but we have to step back and remain objective."

"Remain objective?" Jeff frowned. "You make it sound as if the BAU were prime suspects."

Mac's amber eyes flicked up to meet his blue ones. "Right now, they are."

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Derek Morgan took one last deep breath before tapping the send button. Hotch was right, of course—he needed to call Savannah, if for no other reason than it gave him a chance to regroup, to talk to someone who knew how to keep him calm and balanced.

"So you are alive," she didn't even bother with a greeting, her tone tinged with a playfulness that seemed forced, though he admired her for trying to seem unaffected.

"I'm sorry I didn't call before. I just…trying to find the right time isn't easy."

"It never is," she returned philosophically. "I was beginning to fear the worst."

"Then why didn't you call me?" He asked, trying to remain playful as well, though his mind had been mulling over that question for quite some time now.

"Because I knew that if you were hurt, I would have already known—someone would have called me by now," she sounded proud of herself for unraveling the mystery with such logic. "I mean, obviously, your family would have been notified first—don't even pretend as if your mom isn't your 'In Case of Emergency' contact—and they would have called me."

"Oh, you think they like you that much?" He couldn't help but tease, although he knew it was true.

"Desiree does, at least. We keep in touch."

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah. She calls to check in—to make sure you're really OK, and that you're not just trying to be all big and tough when you tell your mom that everything's alright."

"So…you two have entire conversations about me, behind my back?"

"Man, Desi was right—you _do_ have trust issues."

He laughed, not really surprised and not really upset. It was such a typical Desiree move that he should have seen it coming a long time ago.

"Hey," Savannah's tone softened. "I am glad you're alright. It's good to hear your voice."

"Same here."

"And…I didn't—I know how you get, when you're on a case, and I didn't want to distract you or waste valuable time—"

"Whoa, whoa—_you_ are valuable. The case can be solved without me, as much as I'd love to believe otherwise," he assured her.

She gave an amused hum, "Nice, Agent Morgan. Definite point in your favor."

"I try," he was grinning now.

"So…you are OK?"

"I am. Penelope was injured, and so was JJ—"

"But not badly, right?" The anxious hope in her voice made him smile softly—she didn't know his team very well, but she liked them and she cared for them because she knew how much they meant to him.

"Penelope's OK. JJ's still in ICU."

"What's her condition?" Savannah reverted to doctor-mode.

"Uh, shattered eye socket, few broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, skull fracture—"

Savannah's small noise of concern didn't exactly enliven her boyfriend's hopes. "That's serious, Derek. Like, possible life-long consequences serious. Where's she at?"

"Fairfax."

"Good." Savannah sounded a little less worried. "Fairfax isn't a very big hospital, but they've got an amazing trauma specialist there—Candy Mellinger. She's good. Better than good."

"I don't know her doctor's name," Morgan confessed.

"It has to be Candy." Savannah was dead-certain. "JJ's in good hands. I could call over there if you want—check in, see how she's doing, tell them to take extra-special care of her."

He smiled. "You're a good woman, you know that?"

"I do. And you best not forget it, bud," she returned easily.

He glanced back down the hall. "Look, I probably should head back and rejoin the team. I just didn't want you to worry."

"I always worry," she confessed. "But it's just part of the deal, isn't it?"

"I guess so," he gave a small sigh. He wished that he could promise her that it wouldn't always be this way, but they'd both know he was lying. "I'll see you tonight?"

"Maybe. My shift ends in an hour, but you know how it goes. Depends on what comes through the ER this evening. I'll keep ya posted."

"Sure thing, babe. I honestly don't know when we'll leave, either."

"I know. It's OK. Go catch a bad guy."

"I'm gonna try like hell."

"You will. I have faith." Then, there was a slight moment of hesitation before she softly added, "And Derek…I knew you were alright because—because when I heard the news, I called around to figure out where they'd sent all the injured agents. I called both hospitals, had the nurses in admitting check the records for your name, just to make sure. At that point, I knew there were only two options left—you were either alive and well, or…or you weren't. And I wasn't ready to know if you weren't."

"I understand," he felt his throat tightening with emotion—he'd been on the other side of that equation before, when the options were so scary that he almost didn't want to know, for fear of the one answer that would shatter his world. "And I'm sorry I put you through that."

"It wasn't you, baby. It's whoever this crazy dude is." She took a deep breath; he could feel her resetting herself into a lighter mode, "Now go do your job, Agent. I'll see ya soon."

As he made his way back to the room that the BAU had unceremoniously taken over, Derek Morgan noticed Jack Dawson at the other end of the hall. The man was definitely "walking with a purpose", as his mother used to say—there was something almost urgent about his gait, the tight lines of his shoulders, the clouded expression on his face.

Scott O'Donnell happened to be in the hallway, too—Derek watched as Dawson called to him, the two men coming together to exchange low tones. O'Donnell wasn't the mellowest guy in the world at the moment, but whatever Dawson told him only made him look even more concerned.

Morgan hurried back to his team, announcing as he entered the room, "I think there's been a development."

"What makes you say that?" Callahan asked, as everyone perked up in unison.

"O'Donnell and Dawson are having a little pow-wow in the hallway right now." Morgan jerked his chin in the direction of said pow-wow. "Something's definitely up."

"I'm sure we'll find out soon enough," Hotch tried to sound reassuring. However his words held the hollow echo of foreboding.

* * *

"Are you sure?" Even as the words left Scott O'Donnell's lips, he knew how ridiculous they sounded. He quickly corrected himself, "Of course you're sure."

Jack Dawson simply gave a grimace of understanding—he wanted to be unsure, just as much as O'Donnell wanted him to be. But the facts were there and they didn't lie. The bomb had been addressed to the BAU.

"Who sent it?" O'Donnell asked, his face lined with hesitant curiosity.

"An H.J. Raymond. Which is most likely an alias. Roza ran a check for the name, nothing so far—there are two Quantico employees with that last name, but neither with those initials."

"Didn't think we'd be that lucky anyways," O'Donnell admitted. "Have you told the BAU yet?"

"Not yet. I wanted you to know first." Dawson hesitated before adding, "You know we're going to have to take a closer look."

"Understood," O'Donnell gave a curt nod. Then, he frowned. "H.J. Raymond. I should know this."

"What do you mean?" Dawson was immediately on-alert.

"I don't know," O'Donnell admitted, frustrated. "But it…I don't know."

"Sir," Dawson chose his next words carefully (yes, he was the one called in to lead this investigation, but he still felt the need to defer to Quantico's SAC). "I would like to keep this new development under wraps, for now."

"That sounds like the best plan of action. After the Replicator, the last thing we need is the press and pundits having a field day with the idea of yet another agent-turned-psycho-killer playing cat and mouse with the BAU."

Dawson nodded in agreement before clarifying. "Sir, I want this kept under wraps from the BAU."

O'Donnell's brown eyes widened in surprise, "You don't think…"

He couldn't even finish the thought.

Jack Dawson gave a world-weary sigh. "No, sir, I don't. But I can also tell you that I didn't think John Curtis would turn out to be the Replicator, either."

The SAC couldn't argue with such logic. Instead, his brows furrowed as he quietly intoned, "Do what you need to do—and don't go easy. Lean hard. Prove their innocence beyond all shadow of doubt. I don't want to spend the rest of this case wondering if we've actually got the bomber in our briefing room."

"Understood, sir."

O'Donnell suddenly swore under his breath, glancing down at his watch, "I was going to—we're supposed to have a briefing in twenty minutes. What should we do about the BAU?"

"Keep everything on schedule," Dawson informed him. "For now, the BAU doesn't know. They're smart people; they'll know something's up if we un-invite them from the party. There's no reason to bring undue attention at this point."

"But what if the UNSUB is one of them?"

"Honestly, sir," Dawson gave a heavy sigh. "At this point, we really don't have anything to report, aside from the mail log entry—which we obviously won't be discussing in this particular briefing—so it's not like they'll be learning something new about the case, at least not from us. And we'll make sure none of them leave this building until they've all be fully questioned again."

"So...business as usual, then?"

"As usual as it can be, given the circumstances."

* * *

The room had become painfully silent after Jack Dawson had left—Keller and Eden were still positioned on the couch, and Shostakovich was leaned against the desk. The two women knew that Jack and Jonas had discussed Judith's recent behavior, and Jonas was keenly aware of the fact that they'd also been talking about him in return.

Thankfully, Jonas Shostakovich was a man of duty—Jack had ordered him to make up with Judith as quickly as possible, and he'd accepted the task.

_You know Jude—she doesn't function well when she feels like the outsider_. Jack had hit the nail on the head with that description. Judith Eden had an aversion to outright discord (she might spat, but she'd never yell), and whenever she felt ostracized, she shut down completely. Jonas was pretty sure it went back to her childhood—she'd mentioned several times that she'd been bullied mercilessly in her younger years. Now she was an attractive woman with legs that went on for miles, but her body type and distinctly Roman features were definitely things that had to be grown into—it couldn't have been easy, growing up "a gangly girl with a horseface", as she'd once jokingly described herself (though even then, he'd seen the slight flinch behind her words, and he'd known that someone else had called her that before, and it'd hurt).

He hadn't meant to make her feel that way again. He'd only been trying to protect her—but no matter what his intentions, Jonas Shostakovich quietly acknowledged that his actions had caused her harm, and there was nothing left to do but apologize.

He glanced over at Keller, who was studying a transcript as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Her swollen and blistered feet were still propped up on the chair, and he knew he couldn't ask her to leave the room in her condition.

Which left only one alternative.

"C'mon," he easily pushed himself off the desk, crossing the small room to tap Jude's shoulder as he continued to the door. "Let's go for a walk."

Judith didn't ask questions. She knew why. She spared a glance at Keller, holding up her cellphone in a silent gesture (_call us if you need us_). Keller gave a curt nod and returned to her reading.

Judith waited until they were far enough down the hall—far enough away from anyone else's ears—to quietly inform him, "You don't have to apologize, Vichie."

"I know." The second half, the _but I'm going to anyways_, was unspoken but understood.

"It wasn't entirely your fault."

"I know that, too."

They found a side exit and stepped outside. Judith instantly regretted leaving her coat behind—sunset was less than an hour away, and the waning sunlight had lost what little heat it could give.

Jonas took a beat to collect his thoughts. Judith studied his profile, the strong lines of his face that so perfectly suited his personality and his moral character, the face she'd learned to love for its ability to be read like a book.

"I told Jack that this was solely about the Harrison case. That I thought you were still affected by it, that I'd confronted you, and that you hadn't taken kindly to it."

"So far, no lies."

"I told him that you were trying to defend David Rossi, and that I'd made it personal by saying you were still emotionally compromised."

She ducked her head, "That's true, too."

"But it's not the whole truth, is it?"

She gave a heavy sigh, wrapping her arms around herself as she turned her face away, "Did we come out here just to have another row?"

"No." His voice was quiet. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too," she looked up at him, her dark eyes filled with sorrow. "For all of it—for not trusting you, for…for all of it."

"Sorry enough to stop?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she bit back a retort. She finally allowed herself to speak, though her tone was lined with warning, "I said I was sorry—I didn't say I was penitent."

He gave a sardonic half-smile, one that existed in spite of itself. Typical Jude. He wished that moments like this didn't make him love her so much.

She gently rose on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. He looked at her, his face filled with confusion at her simple gesture.

"Dear Vichie," she reached up, gently patting the place where she'd kissed him, her voice filled with a tired tenderness. "You're a good man, a noble man—and I never wanted to take that away from you. I never wanted you to get caught up in all of this."

He took a moment to study her face, to see the true contrition etched there, along with the compassion for his current distress and the fear that her own actions had truly pushed him away forever. He knew he'd do anything to remove the torment from her eyes—and a small part of him hated her for inspiring such a feeling in him.

And so, as was so often the case when it came to Judith Eden, Jonas Shostakovich stamped down his own hurt to care for hers. He pushed away the feelings of betrayal and confusion, adapting an air of nonchalance that he certainly didn't feel.

"A bit late for that now, isn't it?" His tone was teasing, and she knew that he was trying to move past it. That was how all their disagreements ended—with some smart-ass quip, some signal that their usual give-and-take was back in place.

She forced a wry smirk, trying to play her part as well, "Best laid plans, they say."

However, they both knew that the other was lying. Judith knew that Jonas was choosing to bite back his own questions and accusations, and she knew that he was doing it for her. She felt the need to give him something, to prove that his decision to leave this field of war wasn't made in vain.

So she leaned over, wrapping her arms around him as she rested her head against his shoulder. "When this is all over, I'll bring a bottle of wine—we'll spend the entire evening on your couch, and I will tell you everything."

"Promise?" He sounded hopeful—_truly_ hopeful, not the previous tone of feigned lightness that he'd attempted earlier.

"Promise." She gave a slight nod, her cheek rubbing against the coarse fabric of his jacket.

He considered it. "I suppose I'll have to accept."

"I suppose so—it's the best damn offer you're gonna get."

Now he was smiling—that open, warm smile that completely changed the somberness of his features. She felt a small wave of happiness in knowing that they were truly reconciled—or at least close enough to reconciliation to be on peaceful terms again. Despite the fact that they often disagreed professionally, she hated being at-odds with him personally.

"You think Jack knows the truth?" She asked quietly. She still hadn't let go of him, and he didn't seem to mind.

"I think his only concern is knowing that we're back on the same page." There was truth in that statement—Jack Dawson was a good leader who cared for his team, but generally his concern for their personal lives extended to how it affected their professional abilities and no further.

She gave another hum of amusement.

"C'mon," he patted her hand, which was still on his arm. "Let's get back inside. The last thing I need is you catching a cold—you're too much of a drama queen when you're sick."

"A drama queen?" She feigned indignation. "That's rich, coming from the man who thought he had the swine-flu when it was just food poisoning!"

"Food poisoning is no joke, Jude."

"Jesus, I know. You were getting ready to write your will and picking out headstones."

He merely sighed with the grace of a martyr as he opened the door and motioned for her to enter first.

"We're really alright?" She resorted to a lower, more serious tone.

"Yep. For now."

"You're still wrong about Rossi."

"We'll see."

"Yes, we will."

"Jude, we've just reached a truce. Can we at least wait ten minutes before going back to war?"

"Fine. In ten minutes, I will remind you that you are still wrong about David Rossi."

He couldn't help but grin at her insistence. "And in ten minutes, I will point out that you seem way too taken with the man."

"He's not my type. You know that."

"Yes. Yes, I do."

* * *

Spencer Reid frowned slightly as his cell phone beeped with a text. He was thankful that all of his contacts had transferred over from his cloud storage—_R. Lewis _blinked back at him.

His stomach clenched when he read the message.

"Guys," his tone was filled with warning. Everyone stopped, as if frozen with fear. He looked up, "Rowena just sent me a text—apparently they've checked the mail log. And the only package unaccounted for was one addressed to the BAU."

"Oh, God," Callahan's hand automatically went to her throat.

"Dammit," Morgan turned away.

"Can't these creeps pick on somebody else for a change?" Rossi's tone was tinged with a dark amusement. Truly, he didn't find it humorous—but after a day like today, the only response he had left was laughter. Pure, tired, maniacal, absurd laughter. Not the best response, but he was too drained to hide behind another emotion. Part of him still believed that it had to be some kind of joke—a really fucked up joke, but a joke nonetheless.

However, Reid's expression told the truth—this was real, and laughter was certainly not the appropriate response.

"That's what O'Donnell and Dawson were discussing in the hall," Hotch nodded to Morgan, his voice lined with certainty.

"Oh, God," Kate's spine went rigid. "The profile. We—we mentioned the UNSUB might send the package to himself to deflect suspicion. We mentioned he would be helpful and would try to blend in with the situation."

Derek Morgan sighed, tilting his head into his hand, "We also said that he probably had first-hand knowledge of the Replicator case."

"And aside from Callahan, everyone in the room pretty much fits the profile, in one way or another," Reid spoke slowly, as if he didn't want to admit the truth but couldn't stop himself.

"Oh, mio dio," David Rossi glanced around the room, realizing the truth behind all of these statements.

Hotch crossed his arms over his chest, his usually-serious expression darkened even further by the gravity of the situation. "We've put the noose around our own necks."

* * *

"_Did you ever see a hangman tie a hangknot?__  
__I've seen it many a time and he winds, he winds,__  
__After thirteen times he's got a hangknot."_

_~Woody Guthrie._


	24. Brace for Impact

**Brace for Impact**

"_If you're not confused, you're not paying attention."__  
__~Tom Peters__._

* * *

_**FBI Main Drive. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"What's going on?" Linnea Charles looked around, her question directed at no one in particular. The news crews were packing up their vans, getting ready to head out. A few journalists had already left.

"FBI Headquarters in D.C. released another statement on the attack. They're releasing the names of the dead in a half-hour. Everyone's filmed their spot for the six o'clock news, and there's really no reason for us to camp here overnight—there's only so many times we can stand in front of a building that's only missing two windows and report that we have nothing to report." Toshi Yamagata answered the query, her face a mask of studied disinterest (there was a rumor that she kept her face completely devoid of emotion except when on-camera to prevent creating more lines on her forehead—a weird rumor, but one with obvious basis because Toshi really did seem to keep a straight face at all times).

Toshi's thin fingers tried to rein in her long, thick hair, which was currently blowing around crazily in the winter breeze. Now she allowed herself an expression of confusion, "You're a funny nut to crack, Charles. I can't say that I get you."

"What does that mean?" Linnea wasn't sure how to take that statement.

Toshi shrugged, "You could have had this exclusive all to yourself—for a few hours, at least. You could have been on the breaking edge, put your paper's online edition into hyperdrive. But instead you alerted the rest of us. It might seem nice if it weren't so damn stupid."

"What?" Linnea's confusion rose, and a sense of dread began to bubble in her stomach. "I didn't—what the hell are you talking about?"

"You." Toshi spoke slower, her face muting into a meticulously blank expression once more. "You forwarded that email you got from the FBI. That's why we're all here. Because of you."

"Toshi, I didn't forward anything. Yes, I got that email, but…I left the office almost as soon as I got it."

"Then you've been hacked or something," the older woman didn't seem particularly worried about the idea. "You can ask around—they'll tell you the same thing. They're here because they got an email from you. It's your email address—I double-checked before I did anything about it."

Linnea looked away, obviously distressed by this new revelation. Her eyes went back to the main building, with its two blown out windows. Now, in the gathering dusk, she could see the work lights shining from within as the evidence recovery team continued their work.

She shook her head slowly, her voice barely a murmur, "What the hell is going on?"

* * *

_**The LaMontagne House. Washington, D.C.**_

The events of the day had been too much for young Henry—he'd fallen asleep during the movie. Not that Penelope minded at all—having a small, warm body tucked into her side was much like snuggling with a puppy, and she needed as many sweet comforts as she could get on a day like this. In fact, she let her own weary eyes close as she slowly drifted into a hazy half-sleep as well.

But something was wrong. She could suddenly feel Henry's little body tensing up, heard the distressed shifts in his breathing. When she opened her eyes, she saw his angel-face contorted into an expression of heart-breaking fear.

"Mommy," he murmured, his feet giving a small twitch, as if he were trying to run. "Mommy—Mommy, no!"

"Henry," Penelope was sitting up fully now, rubbing his back as she tried to pull him from his nightmare as gently as possible. "Henry, it's OK. It's just a dream."

Those adorably big eyes opened, muddled with sleep as they searched the room, trying to remember where he was and what was happening.

Penelope kept making little noises of comfort, pulling him into her lap and gently rocking him, "It's alright, Nenry. It's alright. Everything's alright."

A figure appeared in the doorway—it was Will, his face lined with worry that quickly converted to simple fatigue. He knew how the next few nights would go. Henry might be a brave boy, but he was also a boy who'd seen more than a child should, and his bravery didn't keep him completely unscathed.

"I-I…I had a dream," Henry sat up now, awake and alert but still shaken. "Mommy was falling…falling forever. And I tried to catch her—but she kept floating away. I couldn't bring her back."

He hung his head in shame at the last statement, as if his nightmare were somehow his fault.

"Oh, buddy," Will was across the room in two steps, easily scooping his son into his arms. "It was just a bad dream. I know you're worried about Mama, but she's OK now. She had a big fall, and it hurt, but she's still here. She's not going anywhere."

Henry buried his face in his father's shoulder, quietly soaking up the comforting strength of his presence.

Penelope watched the scene, misty-eyed.

"You know what?" Will's eyes found the clock on the mantel. "Pretty soon, it'll be time to go see Mommy again."

"Really?" Henry sat back, immediately delighted by the thought.

Will nodded. "First, we're going to have dinner—as soon as Grandma gets back."

"Grandma?" Henry looked around, slightly confused. "Where'd she go?"

"She went to my house to get a few things for me," Penelope supplied with a reassuring smile. She was truly grateful that JJ's mom was around—Sandy had insisted on going to get Penelope a change of clothes and whatever else she needed (_it's been a rough day, hon—yoga pants will help_). Penelope was too tired to refuse such an offer, and too desperate to get out of her current (and now destroyed) outfit, so she'd easily acquiesced.

There was the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.

"Speak of the devil," Will set his son back on his feet. "Go see if Grandma needs help."

Henry raced to the door. He opened it, cheering with delight at the sight that met his eyes, "She got pizza!"

Penelope could hear Sandy's laugh from outside, and she grinned as well—JJ had pegged her mother all too well.

Will simply shook his head, holding out his hands in a longsuffering gesture (_you see what I'm up against?_).

"Oh, don't even act like you were gonna cook, after all that's happened today," Penelope teased him.

He gave a slight shrug of agreement as Henry and Sandy burst through the door.

"I come bearing many gifts!" The older woman announced happily.

"And pizza!" Henry was doing his dorky happy-dance again. He looked like John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever—after about six-too-many shots of tequila.

"Go wash up," Sandy directed her grandson, who quickly disappeared down the hall. She set a bag of Penelope's things on the couch before heading into the kitchen with the greatly-anticipated pizza.

"Thank you," Will said quietly, tilting his head in Henry's direction.

"Of course," Penelope returned easily. She patted the couch beside her and he took a seat, letting out a weary sigh.

"There's gonna be several more nightmares, before it's all said and done," Will admitted. Penelope gave a hum of understanding. Will tilted his head back, his eyes focused on the ceiling, "I love JJ. I love who she is, how she is—and the BAU is part of that. She tried to walk away, and it was one of the hardest things I've ever seen her do. I know what I'm asking when I beg her to take a desk job again. But when this…"

His hand gently motioned down the hall, where Henry was washing up. He swallowed, shaking his head as he sat up again. "But when things like this are a side-effect of the work you do, no matter how vital that work is….at what point does it no longer become worth it?"

He turned to look at Penelope, the hurt evident in his face—he knew how much his constant pleas for JJ to the leave BAU filled his wife with guilt and frustration, but he also knew how deeply her work affected their son, and for Henry's sake, he couldn't quite let it go.

"I wish I had an answer," Penelope chose the path of brutal honesty. "But I don't. But…you and JJ, you seem to make it work. I know—it's not ideal, having a kid with both of your day jobs, but…but thousands of children grow up in way worse situations. Henry loves you both, and he knows you both love him. I know you only want what's best for him, and you totally should. It's what makes you a good dad. But you're right—this is who JJ is. She's superwoman. She'll never stop being that."

Will smiled at the comparison. Then, he lightly teased, "So, no great, ground-breaking relationship advice?"

"Keep on keeping on?" She offered.

He laughed. "I suppose we don't have much choice, do we?"

He became serious once more as he asked, "I'm not…am I asking too much?"

She knew that he was still referring to his desire to see JJ in a job that didn't put her in harm's way on such a frequent basis. "No. You're asking out of love—for her, and for your son. But you have to realize that she already knows all this, and she feels it just as deeply as you do. But she can't…she can't walk away just yet."

He gave a small, solemn nod. Truly, he understood. After all, his own occupation wasn't exactly the safest in the world, and while his work-related escapades didn't seem to have quite the same traumatic effect on Henry, he also understood that in the blink of an eye, something could happen to him that would be equally devastating to their son. He was self-aware enough to see the hypocrisy in his own requests to his wife, but he couldn't stop himself from asking.

Penelope reached over to gently touch his shoulder, "Remember the karma piggy bank?"

His smile was the only answer she need. She continued, "I always have and always will believe that everything happens for a reason. JJ is with the BAU for a reason. Whatever her reason is, it hasn't been fulfilled yet. When it has, she'll be able to walk away. And maybe...maybe she never does walk away. Maybe she's meant to spend her whole life with the BAU. Maybe next week she decides to retire. But she's not going to be able to let go until it's really, truly time for her to do so. You can't control that, and neither can she."

"And what about you?" He sat back slightly. "You think you'll ever fulfill your purpose?"

She knew what he really asking (_how're you feeling, after today? do you think you'll retire next week? are you OK, emotionally?_). She liked the way Will asked questions, she liked that fact that she understood the meaning underneath them.

"Me?" She grinned. "I'm all for helping people, but I'm not the hero-type. If I'm being perfectly honest, my main concern is my team. I'm there to take care of them. If and when I ever find someone who can take care of my babies as well as I can, then I'm off to Boca Raton in a heartbeat."

He laughed at the idea. "In other words, you'll be there til the end."

"Probably," she admitted with an easy shrug.

Henry raced through the room, the front of his shirt soaked, as well as his sleeves from wrist to elbow.

"Dude, what happened?" Penelope called out as he zoomed past, intent on reaching the kitchen.

"It's water, Aunt Nelope—it just gets everywhere!"

Will merely rolled his eyes heavenward—obviously Henry making a huge mess wasn't a rare occurrence. He rose to his feet, offering a hand to help her up as well. "Enough dark talk for the day. Superwoman is on the mend; we've got cause to celebrate."

"We do indeed."

"And thank you—yet again," he truly meant his words. "I, uh—I know you and JJ are thick as thieves, but I'm prefer if—"

"My lips are sealed," she promised with a lighthearted wink. "Besides, it's only fair—I keep so many of JJ's secrets, too."

"Like what?" Will was playfully curious.

"Nice try, Mr. LaMontagne." Penelope arched her brow, "Just remember that Jennifer Jareau is my best friend, and she keeps nothing from me. I know _way_ more about you than I should."

He blushed at the statement. "I don't even wanna know."

"Don't worry. It's all good. Very, very good."

He merely shook his head. They shared a grin as they made their way into the kitchen.

"Hurry up and eat!" Henry declared, breadstick already in hand as he waited for everyone to be seated. "The faster we eat, the faster we see Mommy!"

"Slow your roll, dude," Penelope informed him in mock reprimand. "You eat too fast, you'll get hiccups. Then you'll be jumping like a frog all the way to the hospital."

Henry laughed at the comparison. However, he was too excited to take his godmother's advice. He wiggled in his seat, humming a happy tune.

"Watcha singing?" Sandy asked, setting the last plate on the table and taking a seat next to her grandson.

"It's the Mommy song," he announced.

"We, uh—we have a song we sing whenever Mommy's coming home from a case," Will explained with an almost-sheepish grin.

"That is the most adorable thing _ever_," Penelope declared. "Teach me the words."

Henry happily obliged, using his finger like a conductor as he led his father and his godmother in a rousing rendition of the Mommy song.

Penelope Garcia was pretty sure that whatever bad vibes that might have remained from the nightmare were completely chased from the house by the loud chorus of happy voices that filled the rooms.

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Mateo Cruz felt like the new kid all over again—something was definitely going on in this room, and he was fairly certain that he was the only person who didn't know what the hell it was.

The Flying J's were on one side of the room—Keller perched on the edge of the desk (she'd put her shoes back on, but she wasn't putting any real weight on her feet unless absolutely necessary), Eden seated in a chair next to Keller, Shostakovich leaning against the desk, and Dawson standing in front like a man getting ready to order a firing squad.

On the other side stood the BAU. As usual, Aaron Hotchner was front and center, but the rest stood close to him, almost shoulder to shoulder, their body language poised for some kind of confrontation, as if they realized every move they made was being monitored by suspicious eyes.

On the adjacent wall, Macaraeg and O'Donnell stood together—O'Donnell conspicuously avoiding eye contact while Macaraeg's wide orbs unabashedly flitted from one side of the room to the other, taking in all the signals zinging from one person to the next. Cruz would've guessed that Macaraeg was in the dark too, except that there was a sense of dread in her expression, as if she knew what had happened and still hoped that she was wrong.

As much as he wanted to demand an explanation, Cruz was smart enough to simply watch and wait.

"So, we'll start with the crime scene and work our way out from there," O'Donnell announced, shifting slightly to defer to SSA Macaraeg. "Mac, all yours."

"Right," she took a deep breath, trying to push past the tension in the room. "I don't think I have to explain to anyone that a scene of this size and nature is a long and arduous process—we're still working on collecting evidence, and the lab is processing it as quickly as they can."

She spared a quick glance at Dawson (an action which did not go unnoticed by the BAU), "We're also processing the mailroom for fingerprints—a preliminary sweep did not test positive for any of the chemicals found in the IED. In other words, our UNSUB most likely assembled the explosive elsewhere and brought it down to the mailroom."

The entire time, Jack Dawson's blue eyes were scrutinizing every reaction of the BAU. With a frustrated shake of his head, he stepped forward, "Let's go ahead and shoot the elephant in the room here."

O'Donnell's head snapped up in surprise. However, Dawson kept his focus on the five profilers as he announced, "They know about the package. There's no point in hiding it."

Aaron Hotchner centered his own laser-like focus on the Flying J's leader. He wasn't sure what this man's game was, but he was ready for anything.

"We checked the mail log," Dawson admitted. "The last entry was a package to the BAU—Roza double-checked everything, and it's the only one that wasn't accounted for in the primary log."

David Rossi was watching the Flying J's as well—however, a slight movement in his periphery caught his attention. Adelaide Macaraeg's face had gone pale, and her left hand gave a quick twitch—her fingers balled into a fist, as if she were quickly recapturing control of her body language, covering up her surprise and what appeared to be a flash of anger.

So she hadn't known about Rowena's message to Reid. Oh, to be a fly on the wall when that conversation happened.

"Obviously, this puts you guys back in the crosshairs," Dawson was neutral, unassuming. He was stating a fact, not throwing out an accusation.

Hotch could respect that. He simply nodded in understanding. "And we realized that as soon as we heard the news. As unpleasant as it is, we know you have to do your jobs."

Jessalyn Keller shifted on her perch, cocking her head to the side. Evidently, this was not the reaction that she'd been expecting from people who'd just been indirectly accused of domestic terrorism.

Dawson took a beat to weigh the sincerity behind Aaron Hotchner's words—he'd only known the man for a short time, but he'd gotten the immediate impression that Hotchner was a straight-shooter. He gave a small nod. "We are looking into other leads first. But y'all will understand that we're gonna have to ask you to remain within the building until we've had the chance to speak with each of you, individually."

"Of course," David Rossi returned easily, though there was the slightest hint of an edge to his words. He'd gladly submit to interrogation—after all, it was part of the job, and he wouldn't begrudge these people for eliminating every possible suspect—but he wouldn't allow his team or himself to be treated with disrespect. His tone implied that warning, which Dawson seemed to understand.

Mateo Cruz was still floored by this new turn of events. "Wait, so…what does this mean? Do we really have another Replicator on our hands?"

"The Replicator, replicated," Judith Eden murmured, glancing down at the floor. She'd been unable to stop herself from the obvious word-play. Thankfully, no one really noticed.

"Let's give the evidence a chance to decide that," Macaraeg warned, holding her hands out as if to slow down his train of thought.

"We certainly don't want rumors of another John Curtis on our hands," O'Donnell agreed. "It could mean something, it could mean nothing. The BAU could have been chosen at random—or our UNSUB could have chosen them simply because of his emulation of the Replicator, not because he holds a personal grudge against the unit itself."

The look of utter incredulity that Adelaide Macaraeg gave him perfectly summed up everyone's feelings—there was no way that this was a mere coincidence.

"I think it's safe to assume that whoever sent it used an alias," Hotch returned his attention to Dawson. "If he's emulating John Curtis, the alias may seem inconsequential at first, but it will hold special meaning to him."

"Holy shit," O'Donnell started, struck by a flash of insight. "That's it! The packaged was from an H.J. Raymond—Henry Judson Raymond!"

"One of the assumed identities of Adam Worth," Spencer Reid caught on, quickly explaining to the rest of the room. "John Curtis assumed the alias of Adam Worth as an attempt to show his prowess—he saw himself as the new Napoleon of Crime."

"And now our new guy is letting us know that he's on the same level," Cruz surmised.

"The Adam Worth alias is not a widely known fact," Aaron Hotchner pointed out, glancing back at O'Donnell. "We need to look specifically at people who had direct access to the case itself, or the files."

"And after the Replicator, you can bet that kind of clearance became a lot harder to get," O'Donnell set his hands on his hips. "We've refitted the system and perform regular scans for any kind of breaches."

"We know," Rossi returned. "Our technical analyst helped create the new defense program."

Jonas gave Judith a cryptic look. However, Derek Morgan noticed—and he understood the general tone of the message.

"Look, we realize that all of this information only digs us in deeper," he held out his hands in a gesture of acceptance. "But if one of us really was the UNSUB, why would we volunteer information that would only help you catch us?"

No one answered the question. However, there were a few wary looks.

"I'm going to get Roza," Dawson announced, turning to scoop his jacket from the back of Judith's chair. "I want this new evidence on lockdown—no mention of the package or H.J. Raymond or Adam Worth or John fucking Curtis outside this room. Understood?"

Everyone gave solemn nods of agreement. Dawson took a beat to look around the room as he donned his jacket, "Anyone have anything else to share?"

No one spoke. With a curt nod toward O'Donnell, Dawson left the room.

"On that note," the Quantico SAC made a gesture of dismissal. "I think we'll end the briefing. The next meeting will be in two hours—if there aren't any major developments before then."

Mac was out of the room in a flash. Rossi was pretty sure he knew what her next objective was. He suddenly felt the urge to somehow spare Rowena Lewis from the impending storm. He hurried out into the hallway, calling out, "Mac!"

She whirled back around, obviously surprised by the sound.

"Take it easy on her."

"Her?" Mac's eyes widened. "So it was Agent Lewis."

Rossi just realized that he'd not exactly helped the situation. Still, he tried, "She wanted to help—"

"The BAU or the investigation?" She cut him off. "Because right now, those two are diametrically opposed. Agent Lewis knew that—and she made her choice."

"Blowing in there and ripping her head off isn't going to change anything," he pointed out, keeping his own voice calm.

She let out a sigh—he was right. She gave a quick shake of her head, "I can't just pretend that my own agent didn't compromise an investigation—probably one of the most high-profile investigations of this decade, no less."

"Ask her why she did it, first."

"I know why she did it," Mac retorted, setting her hands on her hips defensively. Her anger was rekindling. "And I know why Masterson would've done it, if he'd been the culprit. I'm not stupid, Rossi. I get it. And that's exactly why I don't like blurred lines between colleagues. Shit like this happens and loyalty becomes a personal asset but a professional hazard."

"Are you saying you wouldn't have done the same thing?" He was genuinely surprised.

"Eight people are dead!" Mac jabbed her finger in the direction of the main building, her voice cracking with emotion. She pulled back—her fervor had betrayed her personal feelings towards the case, a line that she didn't like crossing. In a softer, more contained tone, she continued, "I'm saying that I would have done my job. And my fellow agents would have understood that I was simply doing my job. Fidelity, Bravery, _Integrity_—without that last part, the first two traits mean nothing. Agent Lewis compromised the integrity of the investigation—and in doing so, she compromised the integrity of my unit and my reputation as its leader. I can't let that stand, Rossi. I can't and I won't."

"She knows we're innocent." Rossi understood Mac's stance, but still, he felt the need to defend Rowena.

"So do I." The wind suddenly left Mac's sails, and she lost all sense of confrontation. "But I also know that your innocence has to be proven by the investigation itself. Her actions only muddy the waters."

"I know," Rossi surprised her by agreeing without hesitation. "But try to remember that she's only human, and she's only doing what humans do—looking out for the people she cares about."

"And why does she care?" Mac became suspicious. "I mean, in the grand scheme of things, she spent less than a week with your guys on the ANAM case."

"We had an instant connection," Rossi shrugged. He didn't really care if Mac believed him, or even understood—honestly, her reaction earlier had informed him that she was still influenced by the tales of who he used to be, and he'd learned a long time ago that people would believe what they chose, no matter the evidence to the contrary.

She looked down the full length of her nose, studying him with a clinical sense of determination. He could tell that she believed him, though she wasn't quite ready to let him off the hook. "Hmm. I bet."

"Is that a note of jealousy I detect in your tone, Agent Macaraeg?" He shouldn't tease her, but David Rossi often did things he should not.

"Don't make me punch you in your fucking face, David Rossi."

He laughed; she smiled. Rossi knew that he'd accomplished his task—Adelaide was much calmer than she'd been when she'd left the room.

"What are you going to tell O'Donnell and Dawson?" He asked quietly.

She shook her head, "My job is to find evidence and report back when I do—not play glorified hall-monitor who tattles every time one of her agents steps out of line. If I thought you guys were guilty, I might have said something. Besides, once I'm done with Agent Lewis, she won't pull a stunt like this again."

Noting Rossi's concerned expression, she added, "Don't worry, your little friend will still be in one piece next time you see her—I'm a mom, remember? I've had over two decades to perfect the art of inducing guilt trips. And I gotta say, I'm really, _really_ good at it."

He laughed again, "I believe it."

"You'd better," she teased. "And you'd better hope you're never on the receiving end."

"You forget us Catholic boys love a good guilt trip."

Now she laughed as well, rolling her eyes heavenward. David Rossi was certainly proving himself to be an interesting man—surprising in the best of ways, so far. He made her laugh on a day like today, in a situation like this, and she appreciated that—because he'd taken the time and effort to make her laugh, to somehow reduce the stress of the day in some small measure (she knew the implication of his actions, but she didn't want to admit them).

"I've gotta go reprimand a wayward bleeding heart," she jerked her chin towards the front door.

"Be gentle," he requested.

"Ah, Rossi," she gave a devilish grin. "You don't know me at all."

He was grinning, too, just as wickedly, shaking his head as she walked away.

She shouldn't have said that. She shouldn't have encouraged impropriety between them. She shouldn't have ignored the voice in her head that had started screaming _stay away from that man_, almost from the moment they'd met.

Adelaide Macaraeg had an awful habit of doing what she shouldn't.

* * *

"_It's hard to resist a bad boy who's a good man."_

_~Nora Roberts__._


	25. Truth, Suggestion, & Doubts In-Between

**Truth, Suggestion, and the Doubts In-Between**

"_Suspicion often creates what it suspects."_

_~C.S. Lewis._

* * *

_**Mobile Command Center. Outside Main Building.**_

Something was definitely up—Sura Roza didn't have to be a psychic to know that. It had been less than an hour since Jack had called to run the cross-reference on the last entry in the secondary mail log, a request that had brought back interesting results: the package designated for the BAU had not been delivered through the front door. And now, Jack Dawson was back inside the MCC, helping Sura load up her personal laptop and the flashdrives containing all the data she needed to continue her work elsewhere—elsewhere being back at the Academy, with the rest of the Flying J's. Whatever Jack wanted her to turn her attention to, he certainly didn't want anyone else to see. Why else would he remove her from the rest of the analysts, moving her to a room where only other Flying J's would have immediate access?

Sura was a smart woman. She waited until they were outside, away from prying ears—they were currently at the back of the black SUV, loading her personal computer equipment to transport it back to the Academy.

"What's going on, Jack?"

He stopped, taking a beat to glance out across the open lawn. "This ship's got too many leaks, and we need to plug them up fast. The turn this investigation has taken requires some sensitivity, and I don't know those other two guys in the van—and I sure as hell don't have the time to figure out if they can be trusted. At the risk of sounding paranoid, I want you sequestered."

She gave a hum of amusement, "And here I thought you just missed the warm sunshine of my presence."

"That, too," he deadpanned. "You know how I crave your company, dear Rose."

Her grinned deepened. Despite his cloak-and-dagger antics right now, if Jack Dawson was back to Titanic references, then all was well.

"Well, whatever your true motives are, I'm glad I get to be back with my little ducklings," she reached out and gave his arm a reassuring pat. "Give me a second to grab the rest of my things."

He nodded, shutting the trunk and taking a moment to watch her power-walk back to the command center. He'd worked with Sura for almost seven years now, and he trusted her as deeply as the rest of his agents—perhaps even more so, because she had an amazing ability to disengage her emotions and attachments to do her job. Given the things she'd seen in her time with FBI, it was obviously a coping mechanism, but one that also was a valuable asset.

He thought about Jonas' words from earlier, _Sometimes, you have that one case that hits that one nerve you weren't prepared for. You get blindsided. It happens_.

It was certainly true—they'd all had moments where a particular case hit some chord deep within, had challenged their objectivity.

Roza had never had a moment like that—at least not one that he'd ever seen or noticed. She always seemed perfectly distanced from the horrors of their work, afloat and unperturbed.

He'd have to ask her the secret behind her serenity, one day.

The door to the command center van opened again, and Sura Roza was marching her way back to the SUV. "Alright, cowboy—let's ride."

Once they were both inside the vehicle, she added, "So. What deeply personal and highly sensitive information will I be looking into now?"

Dawson wasn't prepared for that question, though he wasn't particularly surprised by it—Sura didn't like wasting time, and the idea of merely chatting about the weather on the ride over to the Academy obviously wouldn't sit well with her, not when there was so much work to be done.

"Jude has a theory that this whole attack is personal," he began.

Sura gave a hum of agreement, "I could buy that."

"Jonas is convinced that David Rossi looks good for it—today there was a moment when he came forward to defend Erin Strauss, and things seemed…much more..._emotional _for him than the others."

"Whoa. You're saying he was sleeping with his superior?"

"I think it might have been a little more than that—but yeah, pretty much."

"Damn. Quantico is so much more lax than Richmond."

"I doubt it was an open thing, Sura."

"Still. Word on the street was that Strauss was a total hard-ass. Hatchet girl, they used to call her."

"How do you know this?"

"I know things, Jack. It's my job."

He couldn't deny that statement. With a light sigh, he continued, "Jonas' theory is based on the fact that Rossi lost Strauss _because_ of the job."

"And now he's getting back at the Bureau?"

"Yep."

"OK. It's not the solidest case, but I'll buy it for now. It's not like this is the craziest supposition that Vichie's ever created."

Jack grinned at the quip. It was true. "The thing is, Jude doesn't agree—in fact, she's adamantly opposed to this idea."

"So we have Vichie's hunch versus Jude's intuition." Sura surmised gravely. She understood the dilemma—Jonas was good at seeing the unseen, and Judith was a brilliant read of human emotion. Both had proven themselves right more times than they'd been proven wrong. "You didn't call Keller in for a tie breaker?"

The question was half in jest, but still there was some truth behind it—Jessalyn Keller was generally the most logical and reasonable person in the room.

"No," Jack admitted with a slight shake of his head. "I could tell that Jess was just as on the fence about it as I was—though she'd probably go ahead and side with Jonas, just to be safe."

"And just to antagonize Jude," Sura pointed out. It wasn't a secret that the two women weren't exactly the best of bosom buddies—Eden liked to tease the uptight Keller, and Keller liked to disapprove of Eden's actions or theories. Underneath there was a current of mutual respect and even the slightest hint of friendship, but it was all certainly rooted in a slightly combative give-and-take. It was almost as if they'd made some strange vow to never be friends, no matter how much their opinions of one another may improve.

"Well, there's that, too," Jack agreed, knowing full well that Sura was right.

"So what's that infamous gut of yours telling you?" Her voice softened.

He sighed. "That Judith's theory is solid. And so is Jonas'—but it isn't Rossi. I think we need to look for someone else who's suffered a deep loss, that could also be linked to or otherwise blamed on the Bureau in some way."

"So…you're wanting be to scour the personal lives of the BAU?"

"We've gotta start somewhere."

Sura Roza gave a small nod, turning to look out the window—they were pulling up to the front door of the Academy now. With a sigh of her own, she quietly pronounced, "I don't like doing this to one of our own."

"I know," Dawson shared her anguish. However, he became sterner as he reminded her, "But whoever did this isn't one of us anymore. He or she gave up on the Bureau a long time ago."

Roza hummed in agreement, her voice low and philosophical, "Such is the way of traitors."

Then easily adapting a less melancholic air, she turned back to him, "So, have Jude and Vichie patched things up between them?"

"God, I hope so." Dawson sighed, putting the vehicle in park. He didn't even ask how Sura knew—honestly, he wasn't surprised.

"Good. Any idea what it's about?"

"Jonas claims it's about the Harrison case. Says Jude's still a little bruised. And then, of course, they're butting heads over Rossi. His version is that it started with a disagreement over Rossi's innocence and then devolved into a personal jab about her emotional state."

"Shostakovich is feeding you a line of bullshit, Jack," Sura opened her door and slipped out easily, her nonchalance adding to the certainty in her voice.

"What makes you say that?" Jack met her at the back of the SUV, opening it as they began retrieving her equipment.

"Because," she slung a bag over her shoulder. "They were fighting yesterday evening, when you guys returned from the field. She was walking down the hall, he grabbed her elbow and said something fierce. He looked pissed—more pissed than I've ever seen him. _Ever_. She was mad too—not the usual depressed funk you can get into after a hard case like that."

"What were they talking about?"

"I dunno," Sura shrugged easily. She wasn't enjoying this the way a salacious gossiper would, she was merely relaying facts to prove that Jack wasn't getting the full truth from Vichie. "I was too far away to overhear it. Look, I don't doubt that the Harrison case hit Jude hard. It should. But I also don't doubt that whatever they're fighting about has zero to do with that. I mean, it might be what they're fighting about now, but it's not what started the fight."

"Shit." Was Jack's only reply.

"Yeah," Sura gave a heavy sigh of agreement. "Shit."

"Vichie's not the type to keep secrets," Dawson mused. He knew Sura had to be telling the truth, but it was hard to reconcile with the fact that Jonas had to have lied to him earlier—Jonas was honest to a fault.

"Yeah, but we're talking about his darling Jude. All bets are off." Sura closed the back of the SUV. With a slight shake of her head, she added, "If I were Lise, I'd be a bit worried about that whole thing."

"Except for the fact that Jude's a woman," Dawson pointed out.

"So what?" Sura didn't seem phased. "Just because Jonas is married to a man doesn't mean he can't be attracted to women. Here in the twenty-first century, we have this thing called bisexuality, Agent Dawson—"

"Jonas adores Lise."

"He adores Judith, too."

"It's not the same."

"Maybe," was Roza's cryptic retort. She opened the door and then looked around expectantly, "Now, where am I supposed to be?"

"This way," he headed down the hallway. Cpl. Ryan was still standing in the hallway—the Flying J's weren't handling any more interviews, but there were still dozens of rooms down the hall being used by the other two dozen agents who were still conducting preliminary interviews of Quantico employees. "Cpl. Ryan, this is our technical analyst, Sura Roza."

Roza merely nodded in greeting, and Ryan did the same, adding a respectful _ma'am_ at the end. Jack opened the door with a flourish as they breezed into the room.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Judith Eden held her hands out in triumph at Roza's appearance.

"Meow, meow," Roza returned with a grin. She followed Jack over to the desk, where she began unpacking her laptop and all its paraphernalia. She spared a quick look at her boss, ever-so-slightly tilting her head back towards the other side of the room, where Judith, Jonas, and Jessalyn were all seated on the couch. After the briefing, Jess had reclaimed her spot at one end of the couch, shoes removed and feet elevated on a chair once more. Judith was on the opposite end, one arm propped up on the back of the couch, legs curled up on the cushions. Jonas was sitting next to her, his arm also the back of the couch—their arms touched from elbow to wrist, and her knees were comfortably resting against his leg as if personal boundaries held no meaning for them.

Well, at least it seemed as if they'd buried the hatchet. Jack Dawson refused to think about what else it could mean.

"When do we start interviewing the BAU?" Jess asked, delicately adjusting her black-rimmed glasses.

"Roza's gonna do a little digging first," Jack answered, setting his hands on his hips. "We may only have one shot to do this, and we're gonna do it right—which means we need to know exactly what we're up against before we go into the interview room."

His team gave a grave nods of agreement.

"While we're waiting, can we order dinner?" Eden asked.

"Oh, god yes please," Roza piped up. "I missed lunch and there's no way in hell I'm eating in the mess hall."

Dawson looked at the two women as if they'd lost their minds—however, he noticed Jonas and Jessalyn's expressions and realized that they were hoping for the same thing, too. That was Jack's one point of criticism as a team leader—when he was caught up in a case, he didn't seem constrained by normal things like hunger or fatigue, and he sometimes forgot that the rest of his team didn't function as efficiently as he did.

"Fine," he sighed in feigned exasperation. He pulled out his phone and began searching for local restaurants that delivered.

"We should get something for Bradley, too," Judith piped up.

"Bradley?" Dawson was confused.

"Cpl. Ryan," Jess offered. "As usual, Eden's gotten friendly with the natives."

"Nothing wrong with that," Roza murmured as she turned her laptop on. "If I were about ten years younger—"

"And not happily married with four kids?" Dawson added.

"Oh. Yeah. Right—that, too." She feigned hesitation. With a slight grin, she added, "It's a good thing my husband's an amazing man."

"Rub it in for the rest of us poor sods, will ya?" Eden returned playfully, ruffling a hand through her dark hair in feigned agitation. Jessalyn merely rolled her eyes in mock irritation as well.

"Alright," Sura sat back slightly. "We're back up and running. Be ye warned, I'm starting up my music—and I'm off to find our UNSUB."

"God, I hope not," Judith murmured, suddenly serious. She looked over at Jonas, her dark eyes filled with dread, "I don't want you to be right."

"I know." He gave her hand a small squeeze of comfort. "I don't want to be right, either."

* * *

_**Outside the Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Lewis and Masterson had just stepped out the front door when Macaraeg pulled up in the big black suburban. She hopped out easily, her stern facial features looking even more severe due to her obvious distemper.

The two agents stopped, waiting for her to approach.

"This can't be good," Jeff murmured.

Roe didn't respond. She had a pretty good idea what this was about.

"Someone told the BAU about the mail log," Mac's voice was flat, a sure sign that she was holding back a wave of anger. "They knew about it _before_ Jack Dawson told them."

"It was me," Rowena Lewis didn't hesitate. Jeff turned to her in surprise (an action that slightly surprised Mac in turn—she didn't think there was much that those two did without each other's knowledge and approval). Noting Jeff's glance, she quietly explained, "I knew you wanted to tell them, and I—I decided to do it, instead."

"Roe," Jeff's voice was soft, yet still lined with reprimand.

"I know." She didn't look up.

"You compromised this investigation," Mac stated.

"I know." This time, she did make eye contact with her superior. She didn't offer excuses, but she didn't apologize either—she stood by her convictions and the actions they inspired, and she'd take whatever reprimand was given. Macaraeg couldn't help but admire the hell out of her for it.

"It's more than that," the older woman informed her. "You compromised the integrity of this team—the professional integrity of Masterson and myself. We can't afford to be biased, and you've eradicated any neutrality that existed for us. If Dawson or O'Donnell finds out—"

"They don't already know?" Jeff's face was filled with confusion.

Mac shook her head, "They know there was a leak—they just don't know it was us. And I honestly don't plan on telling them, simply because I do not believe it will affect the outcome of this case."

"You think the BAU's innocent, too," Jeff surmised.

"Yes. Of course I do," Mac dismissed the thought with easy sincerity. She turned her attention back to Lewis, "However, I also know that since they're innocent, they can prove it themselves—without help from us. Our job is hard enough as it is; we can't run around playing judge and jury and defense attorney, too."

Lewis nodded. She understood, even if she didn't agree.

"I get it," Mac became gentler. "But I can't allow anything like this to happen again—so I need to know now, Agent Lewis, if this is going to be a recurring theme for you, for the remainder of this case. Because if so, I need to find someone else who can do the job without compromising it."

Rowena's eyebrows shot up in surprise—Mac wasn't pulling any punches, and her directness was admirable, even if it wasn't wholly welcome.

Agent Lewis truly considered the question. Then she answered, "No. I can do this job."

"Good," Mac gave a curt nod. She took a moment to give both agents a weighted look. "This will be the last time that I say this: we stay the hell out of the politics involved. We don't choose sides, we don't tip the scales. We do our jobs and we keep our thoughts to ourselves. Our first loyalty has to be the Bureau itself—and the eight men and women who lost their lives today. Everything we do is to bring them justice and to give their families some measure of peace in knowing that whoever did this can never do it again. We're here for them. No one else."

Rowena Lewis looked down at the ground again—Mac could tell that her words had struck a chord, and her chastisement was complete.

"Now, c'mon," Mac turned back to the car with a sudden shift in demeanor, forcing herself to sound lighter. "I'm assuming you two were headed out for dinner—let's go."

Jeff reached over to gently pat Roe's shoulder, silently thanking her—because he knew that she'd done it for him, because she'd seen the fear and the worry in his eyes, and she'd wanted to ease his concern in some small way.

"I'm gonna have to start calling you Rambo," he teased. She merely grinned in response, shaking her head (she knew that there wasn't any reason to explain her actions to him—he knew, just as he always did). They headed for the SUV and he waited a beat before asking, "So, who did you text?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because."

"Reid." She knew what his reaction would be, before she even answered—and she wasn't disappointed.

"Oh really?" He was grinning like a cheshire cat.

"Don't go there."

"Too late." He turned back to her as he opened the car door, his face skewed in feigned confusion, "So…Leid? How's that sound?"

"Don't you dare—"

"I can ship it. I can totally ship it." He slid into the front passenger seat without awaiting her reply.

Mac had heard the last line, "What're we shipping?"

"Nothing," Rowena answered, her voice lined with warning as she got in the back seat.

Mac took a moment to study Masterson, who was still grinning madly. She merely smiled and rolled her eyes in amusement. Everyone was back in high spirits, she wouldn't ruin it.

"So, how'd the BAU seem?" Jeff asked, keeping his tone conversational.

"Good—given the circumstances." Mac made a slight face. "I don't think anyone really believes that someone from the BAU is actually involved, but they also can't ignore the connection."

"How many Replicator comparisons have been made?"

Now his team leader seemed hesitant. "Actually, Dawson has asked us to not even mention the Replicator outside the briefing room."

"That bad, huh?"

Mac gave a single, solemn nod. "Nobody wants to be the one who screams _fire_ first, but we're all definitely beginning to feel the heat."

Rowena turned her face to the window, watching the news crews outside the barricade with little interest—they seemed to be disbanding, but their presence or absence had no effect on Roe's work, so it didn't really matter.

Macaraeg's words had left a mark. She hadn't seen her actions as anything other than a friend doing what she could to help her friends—but to be honest, she also hadn't thought about her duty to the people who'd died today, or how her actions could affect that obligation. She'd spent the entire day crawling through rubble, collecting bits of glass or metal or whatever, and yet through it all, she'd turned off her humanity, had forgotten about the bodies that took their last breaths in the very places that she'd stood. She'd forsaken the people who could no longer defend themselves in order to help those who were still perfectly capable of handling whatever came their way—and in the process, she'd also put a black mark on the two people who _were_ trying to avenge the ones she'd forsaken. She didn't regret her actions (she knew she should, but if she were honest, she'd have to admit that she'd probably do it all over again), but she also couldn't shake the feeling of how…_profane_ her behavior had been.

Integrity. That was the word Mac had used. Rowena believed herself to be a decent human being, an honest one (most of the time), but integrious? She shrank from the word, somehow finding herself too wanting to be given such a stainless title. She knew part of her aversion was rooted in her own past, in the dark, sticky, dirtiness that her stepfather had ingrained in her (because his behavior, all the things he did, was _because_ of her, because of whatever dark power she held, because of whatever profanity she unwittingly possessed and dispersed into the word), and yes, she'd seen shrinks, all of whom had been calm and kind and adamant that the horrors of her childhood had not been her fault, but their words had little control over her mind's immediate impulse to blame herself. And now, in moments like this, when her natural actions had shown something lacking, it only seemed to further prove her inner litany of sins. And perhaps she also shied away from the word because it truly didn't fit—because there were things she'd done, so many things over the past three decades since she'd left her mother's house for good, that could not be blamed on anyone but herself. She'd led men from their wives (god, she'd wanted to do the same with Jeff, so deeply that it made her teeth ache), she'd lied her way out of stressful situations in her personal and professional life, she'd "read" evidence in a certain slant to tip the scales in favor of the Bureau on a case—she'd even helped cover up an international incident in Nairobi, without even asking Emily Prentiss for all the details first. Some of those things she regretted, some of them she didn't. Either way, all of them made her unworthy of being called a woman of integrity.

That didn't bother her (much). She already knew that. What bothered her was the thought that she'd compromised the integrity of two people whom she admired—one whom she even loved, very dearly and perhaps more purely than any other man she'd known.

If Mac had known just how deeply her words would strike, she never would have used them. Rowena knew that. However, coulda-woulda-shoulda didn't change what was, and now Rowena Lewis' mind was swirling with doubts about her own moral standing.

Jesus. She was pushing fifty (though she could still pass for forty-five—_thank you, genetics_) and here she was, still floundering about like she was nineteen and just learning how to breathe outside the hell that had been her childhood home.

_When are you gonna learn—when are you gonna stop?_

"Hey," Jeff's gentle voice brought her back to the present. He was turned around in his seat, his ice-blue eyes filled with concern. "You're pretty quiet back there. Y'Okay?"

"Yeah," she forced the word from her throat, sinking further into the seat. "I'm just…tired."

It wasn't a lie.

* * *

_**The LaMontagne House. Washington, D.C.**_

Penelope gave herself one last once-over in the bathroom mirror. She'd changed into the clothes that Sandy had so kindly retrieved from her apartment, taking the time to wash away what little remained of her makeup (she'd washed up hours ago, before Spencer had taken her to see Henry the first time, but her brief nap on the couch had somehow draw the rest of her mascara into the pits beneath her eyes). Her hair was unceremoniously pulled back into a serviceable bun—it was not her usual look, but given the events of the day, one would simply have to excuse her lack of coiffure.

She looked better. More…normal. Less like an extra from some post-apocalyptic film. More presentable.

Presentable. Jeez louise, Sam had seen her in just about every state and variation of dress, undress, muddled-morning-after makeup, no makeup, yoga pants, no pants, sequined pants—weren't they past the point of trying to always look perfect?

The answer should be yes. However, it did not feel like that—because while Penelope didn't mind her boyfriend seeing her in sweatpants with no makeup, she still didn't want him to see her reeking of death and destruction.

She didn't want him to see her as fragile.

_Fragile_.

That's what he'd called her. Fragile in the best of ways.

There was no _best way_ to be fragile. There was just fragile and not-fragile—and the fragile got shattered.

She had to admit, that had been his appeal, in the beginning—he'd seen her as a girl, just a girl. Not an FBI analyst, not some weirdo who tracked down even weirder weirdos like some computer-based vigilante, not the woman who'd lived through so many heartaches, who carried all of those sad, heavy pieces with her through every step of life's journey. She was cute and quirky and light in his eyes, and she'd needed that—she'd needed to be seen as something and someone outside of her job and her own dark past.

But Penelope Garcia was beginning to realize that she also needed more than that. She needed someone who could see the dirt and grime of her job, who could meet the demons of her past, who could walk through every room in her soul's house and not be frightened—someone who could still see the light and airy girl within all of it. Someone who could see _her_, in every shape and form.

To be fair, she'd never really given Sam the chance to prove himself in that department. But she also couldn't deny her gut's impulse to shield him—if there was one thing that she'd learned over the years, it was to listen to her intuition.

Her intuition told her not to share this part of her life with Sam. Because deep down, she knew that he couldn't handle it. He thought he could—and oh, she knew he _wanted_ to—but that wasn't the same thing.

Which left only one question. Penelope looked up, locking onto the mournful eyes in the mirror—the eyes of a woman who already knew the answer, but was still hoping that she could change it.

_Well, Penelope….what are you gonna do?_

* * *

"_Love was kind for a time  
But now just aches and it makes me blind  
This mirror holds my eyes too bright  
But I can't see the others in my life."_

_~Mumford &amp; Sons, Lover's Eyes._

* * *

**_*Author's Note: As always, merci beaucoup for all the wonderful reviews.*_**


	26. A Hard Day's Night

**A Hard Day's Night**

"_One need not be a chamber to be haunted."_

_~Emily Dickinson._

* * *

_***Author's Note: I know. I KNOW. Traveling and wedding-planning (not my wedding, thank goodness) and working overtime due to Derby week/Royal Ascot have all unfortunately taken a toll of this story's update schedule. But to make up for it, maybe I could interest you in the slightest dash of Emily Prentiss?***_

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Lady Sura, full of information, aid us in our hour of need."

Sura Roza gave a wry grin at the now-familiar refrain, spoken as usual in a somber tone by Judith Eden. There was an entire "prayer" that went with it—crafted by Eden during a very long and boring stakeout, which had also produced a rap song (by Jonas, no less) about Dawson, and a joint effort Poe-esque poem about Keller, who'd been part of the conversation and hadn't been thrilled with the results.

"Seriously, though," Eden moved a chair closer to Sura's, setting a slice of pizza on a napkin in front of the technical analyst. "Take a breather, love."

Sura obeyed, pausing her music and shifting back in her seat to simply take a long, deep breath. Eden retrieved more pizza for herself and returned to her chair, her dark eyes casually glancing over at Sura's laptop, "Anything yet?"

The redhead hummed, "Some real doozies. It's a wonder half these guys are still alive."

"Focus on losses of people close to them," Jack piped up—he'd taken Judith's spot on the couch, happily perching an entire box of pizza on his knee. "Obviously, none of them were injured to the extent of losing of a limb or any other vital body part—nothing traumatic enough to make them feel as if the Bureau ruined their life, at any rate."

"Yes, thank you—I'd completely forgotten how to analyze data, being a mere analyst and all." The snippy snarkiness in Roza's tone did not go unnoticed, though its coolness was lessened by the amused smirk at the corner of her mouth. Becoming slightly more serious, she nodded back to her computer. "So far, nothing like that's come up for Agents Callahan and Morgan. Agent Jareau—the one in ICU—was kidnapped and tortured about a year ago, which could technically be a trigger, but she just doesn't match anything else on the profile. Obviously, we're linking David Rossi to Erin Strauss' murder. I'm still working on Hotchner and Reid."

She reached over to tap a few keys before returning to her pizza. "I'm compiling a list of highlights for each team member—stuff that might be helpful during an interrogation."

Dawson gave a nod of approval. As usual, Sura Roza was one step ahead.

Jessalyn Keller inspected her slice of supreme pizza, picking off the mushrooms and quietly depositing them on the edge of Shostakovich's paper plate. "Does anyone remember what it was like, being able to go home and make an actual meal in an actual kitchen?"

Jonas gave a dreamy sigh, "Ah, yes. Those were the days."

Dawson smiled at his team's feigned nostalgia—though he understood their point. They'd been in the field for over a week straight, working on a harrowing case with a traumatic ending, and they'd gotten back home last night, only to be thrown back into the field again this morning.

"No rest for the wicked," Judith Eden informed them.

"Is _that_ why you have such deep lines under your eyes?" Keller asked, cocking her head to the side in false curiosity.

Judith narrowed her gaze and pointed a warning finger at the younger woman, "Watch it, Keller. Your day's coming. Wrinkles, sun spots—"

"Stretch marks, grey hairs," Roza continued.

"Aching joints, receding hairline," Jonas chimed in, his voice heavy with feigned somberness.

"I feel like I already have all of those things," Keller admitted. Then, with a slight glance over at Jonas, she corrected, "Well, except the receding hairline."

He smiled. Jack Dawson merely shook his head.

Roza suddenly shifted forward, her green eyes glued to her computer screen. Jack noticed, and sat up as well, "What is it?"

"Oh. Oh man," Roza's face contorted in a mixture of apprehension and sorrow. Her voice was quiet, full of knowing dread, "You know that whole theory about losing someone due to the job?"

"Yeah." Dawson was slowly setting down the pizza box, rising to his feet—he couldn't help it, everything in Roza's body language screamed an impending revelation.

"Our net just got wider." Roza swallowed. "Agent Hotchner's wife—she was murdered by a serial killer that the BAU had been tracking."

"Oh my god," Judith's voice broke with emotion. "That poor man—he must be wracked with guilt."

"What happened to the serial killer?" Jess asked quietly.

"Hotchner…killed him."

"I'd have done the same," Jonas admitted, setting aside his plate (suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore). He leaned forward to balance his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together as he gave a small shake of his head. "If someone did anything to Lise, I'd kill 'em with my bare hands."

"That's what he did, actually," Roza grimaced slightly, her green eyes still glued to the screen. "The Bureau held an inquest, but Chief Strauss exonerated his actions and cited it as self-defense."

"As much as I hate to be the devil's advocate," Dawson shook his head at his own words. "It also points to a history of being brash, impulsive, volatile when angry or wronged, and prone to taking matters into his own hands."

"Literally," Eden murmured under her breath—Roza heard the remark and her mouth twitched slightly in response (whether to smile in wry amusement or frown in disapproval, Eden wasn't sure).

"What are you gonna do?" Jess shifted slightly, turning her attention to Dawson.

"The only thing I can—pursue that angle until it proves a false trail," Dawson sighed—it was the sigh of Atlas, of Steinbeck's George, of a man tasked with work that went against every fiber of his being and his moral code. Then he glanced around the room, making eye contact with every single person, "But we're treading lightly—light as a fucking feather. Same goes for the rest of the interviews as well. Do your jobs, but do it with finesse."

"Aye, Cap'n," Judith Eden gave a curt nod. And for once, she was completely serious.

"God," Jess sat back, letting out a small huff. "What else are we going to find?"

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

JJ was awake when her family entered the room, but Will took one look at his wife and knew that every second was a struggle. The only visible eye was rimmed in a dark circle that becried her lack of rest, and she seemed like a dimmer, flatter version of the sparkling and fierce hurricane that had blown into his world just a few short years ago. And because he knew his wife, he knew that she'd probably been off pain meds for at least half an hour (just as he was sure she'd threatened the nurses within an inch of their lives if they didn't make sure she was awake and able to receive visitors when her family arrived), and that she'd endured the discomfort and the fatigue just to sit there, smiling and pretending that she was alright, because she'd rather endure hell than cause of a moment of worry in someone else.

He knew he should be upset with her for being so foolish, for taking such risks with her life, but God above, he couldn't help but love her even more, to the point his throat swelled shut with emotion. He realized that JJ saw this as her penance—her attempt to make up for whatever new scar she'd instilled on their son's psyche. And yet he knew that if she were given the chance, she'd be in the field with her team in a heartbeat.

_It's who she is._ Penelope hadn't been lying on that point.

He tried to push his conflicting thoughts and emotions aside, merely moving to her side to place a kiss on her forehead, gingerly holding onto her shoulder, as if he could send some of his own physical wellness into her body. Henry was at his side in a flash, hopping up and down in excitement. He quickly scooped his son up and deposited him on the hospital bed, where he quickly burrowed into his mother's side.

JJ gave a heavy hum of contentment, her one good arm easily curving around her son's form, pulling him closer as she rubbed his back comfortingly. She fought back the wave of pain that simple action sent ripping through her lungs, trying not to grimace—she could feel just how keenly the three adults in the room were watching her, and she didn't want to give them an excuse to make an even bigger fuss over her than they already were.

She turned her attention to Penelope, closing her eyes momentarily as she swallowed (why did everything require such great effort?). "Cruz—there was something I remembered, I think…you said his office looked like he'd just left. Yet Spence said he hadn't been there all day. That's not like Matt. He's very…careful. Especially after last year."

She didn't have to say what last year was. Everyone knew.

JJ gave a small shake of her head, as much as she could muster with her limited and rapidly waning strength. "It doesn't make sense. The team—they need to know that."

"OK," Penelope gave a curt nod, her voice high pitched and quick, as sure sign that she was nervous. "I'll let them know, I promise."

"Good," JJ sighed, resting her head against the pillow as if she'd just completed a mighty task. Suddenly Will understood why she'd been so determined to be awake when they returned—she held some clue in the case, some clue she needed to pass on.

He wanted to be angry again. But again, he found himself unable. Honestly, he couldn't say that he wouldn't do the same. After all, JJ's lead could help capture the man who'd put her in this hospital bed in the first place.

JJ's throat was so dry that there was an audible click when she tried to swallow. She motioned for the water pitcher and her mother poured her a cup of water before she could even ask.

"You need to rest," Sandy's voice was heavy with worry, her brows tilting downward in distress at her daughter's condition and her own inability to change it.

JJ merely closed her eyes—the fact that she so easily acquiesced to her mother's command only highlighted how tired she must be.

"Sleep, Mommy," Henry rolled to his side, burrowing his head underneath his mother's arm as his own small arm wrapped around her torso. Will had to smile at how gently Henry embraced his mother, his own eyes welling up with emotion at his son's tenderness.

JJ was smiling too, her right hand coming up to brush her fingers through his blond hair. "You're my favoritest boy in the whole widest world, you know that?"

"I know," he answered, with the simple faith of a child. JJ gave a light hum at the answer, closing her eyes as she willed her body to relax.

She felt herself drifting, but she didn't try to pull herself back into consciousness, as she had before. All was well, all that she could do had been done. She could rest.

Her mother was singing again. She couldn't tell if it was really happening, or the beginning of another sightless dream.

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Aaron Hotchner lightly cursed the lateness of the hour as he dialed a now-familiar number—still he'd made a promise, and he'd keep it.

"Hullo?" Emily Prentiss' voice was thick, muddled with sleep.

"I'm sorry—I woke you—"

"No, no, Hotch, it's OK." He could hear her sitting up, forcing herself into consciousness. "I'm just—I actually fell asleep at my desk."

He gave a small grimace of understanding, "I wish I could say I didn't know the feeling, but…."

"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Workaholic," she teased in her usual dry tone. "Seriously, though. I'm awake now. What's up?"

"What are you doing at the office this late?" Hotch double-checked the time—it was close to midnight in London.

"Inquest," she sighed the word. "Black ops gone awry. Though I'm not the one currently being bombed or whatever the hell's going on over there."

He fought back a small smile—of course Emily Prentiss wouldn't allow him to deflect for long.

"Is everyone OK?" She asked again, her tone lined with a certain sense of dread, as if she'd had a premonition of the truth.

"They are now," he glanced down the hall, making sure he was alone. "But earlier today, I wasn't being entirely truthful—JJ and Garcia have both been injured."

"How badly?" Even from halfway around the world, Aaron Hotchner could feel her leaning forward, could feel the breath caught in her lungs.

"Garcia's got a broken ankle, a few scratches—other than that, she's fine. JJ…JJ was in an elevator that dropped three stories."

"Oh my god, Aaron," Emily's voice was lined with worry and slight reprimand (_oh my god, Aaron, why didn't you tell me this earlier, how could you leave me in the dark like this?_).

"She's in ICU, but she's stable."

"You don't get into ICU with a broken ankle." Now there was an edge to her tone (_Aaron Hotchner, don't you fucking lie to me twice_).

"No." He took a deep breath, then relayed the full extent of her injuries.

"It's a miracle she's even alive," Emily murmured.

"I know," Aaron agreed. After a slight pause, he added, "I would have told you sooner, I just…I wanted to wait until there was good news, too."

"And?"

"And I realized if that were the criteria, then it might be a very long time before I spoke to you again," he admitted with a heavy sigh.

Emily gave an amused hum, "So, in other words, the case is going as expected."

He smiled at the droll statement—one that wasn't entirely untrue, either.

"Look, I know I'm outside the circle these days—I don't expect you to give me all the nitty-gritty details on an active case," Emily stopped, held her breath, considered her next words. "But…how are you holding up?"

"We're fine."

"I wasn't asking about the BAU. I was asking about _you_."

He considered her question.

Emily apparently read his hesitancy as a negative thing, because she quickly added, "I mean, you don't have to talk, if you don't want to, it's not like—you don't owe me anything, Hotch."

_You don't owe me anything._ That's what she'd said, several times before, in regards to the new turn in their relationship. And that was the problem—he _wanted_ to owe her something, and wanted her to owe him in return. Mutual stakes in their mutual lives.

"It's not that," he assured her. "It's just that I don't know how I am, right now."

"Oh." Was her only reply.

"It's been a long day—and by the looks of it, it's going to be a long night, too."

She made a small noise of understanding. She'd been there (she was currently there, with this damned inquest).

Despite the already-stated and very-obvious fact that Emily Prentiss was no longer on the inside loop when it came to Bureau cases, he found himself bringing her into the circle anyways, "The bomb that went off—apparently it was meant for the BAU."

"Oh my god. Aaron. This is—this is bad."

He gave a small nod, "To make matters worse, we've implicated ourselves with our own profile."

"Something tells me that Rossi couldn't help but admire the dramatic irony of the situation," Emily returned dryly, and he knew that she was giving her usual crooked grin—the kind she always wore when she gave some smart-ass quip, usually after surviving some horrible scenario. In that moment, he missed her so much that his chest ached.

"I think it may have pushed him past the point of sanity," Hotch admitted, only half in jest. She gave a hum of amusement and he only missed her more.

"Have you guys been officially questioned or…or otherwise named the prime suspects?" Her tone was cautious.

"We were interviewed before we were allowed to work the case—just as a precaution. I'm sure we're going to be called in again soon." Hotch leaned against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. "The man leading the investigation made it very clear that he doesn't think the UNSUB is in the BAU, but he's still going to question us. He's a good man."

"High praise, coming from you," she murmured softly. She became a profiler again, "Besides, what motive could anyone in the BAU have to bomb the FBI?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Aaron noticed movement on the other end of the hallway. He turned his full attention to the door that had just opened, though he continued his conversation with Prentiss, "We profiled the UNSUB as someone who has suffered a deep loss—one for which he blames the FBI."

"No." Emily's response was barely more than a breath. "Aaron—do you…do you think they'll…."

She couldn't bring herself to finish the question. However, Aaron knew the rest.

Jack Dawson walked out into the hallway. He saw Aaron Hotchner—and when their gazes met, there was the briefest flash of sympathy in his ice-blue eyes.

"They know about Haley," Aaron answered, his own voice as low as Emily's. "And I think they're coming to question us now. I'll call you back later."

"OK." There was a space, a beat where Emily wanted to say something else, but couldn't bring herself to. Instead, she added, "Be careful."

The line clicked and Aaron Hotchner swallowed the words he'd wanted to say (_I love you, I miss you, I wish you were here, I wish we were different, I love you, I love you, I'm a fool and I love you_). He'd hoped that the beat in her own words had been a space that she'd wanted to fill with similar declarations—but Aaron Hotchner knew full well the danger of hoping.

He didn't have time to think about such things. The look on Dawson's face had told him everything—they knew about his past, and they knew how this put him in the spotlight of prime suspect.

The long night just got longer.

* * *

"_Darkness does not leave us easily as we would hope."__  
~__Margaret Stohl._

* * *

_***Author's Note: The mention "Steinbeck's George" in the first section is a reference to the character in **_**Of Mice and Men**_**, who is forced to do something morally repugnant for the greater good (go look up the "shoot the dog" trope, for more examples).***_


	27. Advocatus Diaboli

**Advocatus Diaboli**

"_The moment there is suspicion about a person's motives, everything he does becomes tainted."_

_~Mahatma Gandhi._

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"I assume you're well aware of your coworkers'….personal histories?"

Kate Callahan took a moment to study SSA Keller, who stared back unblinkingly behind her thick-rimmed glasses. The inflection had implied a question, but Keller's body language implied a statement of fact.

"Yes," Callahan answered anyways. She crossed her arms over her chest, settling further back into her seat. "And I'm well aware of how those _personal histories_, as you called them, could be misconstrued to fit the facts of this case."

"Well, it wouldn't take much misconstruing, would it?" Keller cocked her head to the side, her green eyes big and bright, like a curious bird's. She leaned forward slightly. "I mean, losing someone you love is tragic for anyone—but losing that someone as a hazard of the job…well, it'd be easy to understand why someone in that situation would want some kind of retribution—closure, in a way."

"My team wouldn't do that."

Keller gave a tight smile. "Your team members are humans. It's what humans do."

"Not all humans think closure involves bombing a building full of innocent people."

Again, another enigmatic smile. "No one's innocent, Agent Callahan. Surely our line of work has taught you that."

"No one in that building deserved to be blown to bits," Kate didn't keep the bite from her words, leaning forward as well.

"What time did you get to work this morning?" Keller's tone became casual, conversational, though she didn't sit back, didn't relax her shoulders or loosen her grip on the arms of her chair.

The sudden change threw Kate for a loop, but she quickly recovered, her brow furrowing in confusion, "Eight-ish. I was coming up the stairs when I heard the explosion."

"Who'd you see?"

"In the stairwell? Nobody. Not until I got into the BAU suite."

"Then who'd you see?"

"Agent Morgan. And Agent Reid was close behind."

"You saw Agent Reid?"

"We met up with him outside."

"But did you see him inside the office?"

"I'm not sure."

"Either you remember seeing him or you don't. Simple answer."

"No, I don't remember seeing him. But that doesn't mean—"

"I am well aware of the faultiness of human memory," Keller sat back now, glancing down at her nails. "If I were going to build a case, I wouldn't lay the foundation with what you remember during a moment of confusion and stress."

"I suppose I should be grateful for that," Callahan returned dryly.

"So," Keller fluffed her blonde hair carelessly, switching gears again. "You've been with the BAU for how long now?"

Callahan looked upward, doing mental math, "Eight months, now, I think. Something close to that."

"You like your coworkers?" Again, the head cocked to the side in avian curiosity.

"I don't have a reason to dislike them."

Feline smile. "That's not the same thing."

Callahan had to shrug in agreement. She answered truthfully, "I like them. They're good people."

"Ever lied for a coworker?"

The question seemed to come out of nowhere. Callahan blinked, regathered her thoughts.

Keller's smile became less predatory, more sympathetic. "We've all done it, Agent Callahan. It's part of who we are—as humans, as agents. Pack mentality, all that jazz."

"If it's something we all do, why even ask?" Callahan adopted her stance, sitting back and crossing her arms over her chest.

"Because I wanted to see if you'd answer honestly." Keller gave a slight shrug of nonchalance. "It informs my opinion on the veracity of your more crucial statements. Surely someone with your skill and training could recognize that."

Callahan's eyes widened in disbelief, "Are you saying that I'm the UNSUB?"

"Of course not," Keller gave a lazy wave of her hand, fingertips brushing away the suggestion. Then she flicked her green eyes back to Callahan's face, her own expression filling with a stony intensity that was unsettling. "I'm saying that a crime of this complexity couldn't be done alone."

* * *

"You don't like me, do you?"

Derek Morgan glanced up, surprised at the directness of the question. As usual, Judith Eden was wearing a sly grin, as if she were amused by the whole thing. She was turned sideways, one arm propped up on the back of her chair, the other lazily stretched out on the table as she leaned back, surveying him down the length of her nose. She looked utterly at-ease, except for the tension in her shoulders which silently informed Derek Morgan that she was preparing herself for some form of conflict.

"I don't _understand_ you," Morgan corrected quietly, choosing the path of total honestly.

She gave a light huff, as if she were laughing as his verbal foot work. "Well played, sir. Well played."

A beat passed as the two agents simply observed one another.

"You have trust issues," she stated simply, no hint of aggression or accusation in her tone. She held up her hand to stop his response, "Takes one to know one, and trust me, I know my own."

Her Cheshire cat grin returned, "Besides, in our line of work, a healthy dose of mistrust isn't exactly a bad thing."

"So…what?" Morgan opened both his hands, holding them out in askance. "You're saying that I don't trust you? And that somehow has something to do with the case?"

"Yes. And no."

That slippery answer sent another wave of irritation across Derek Morgan's skin (it was true—something about Judith Eden was unsettling, frustrating…_dislikable_). Her nonchalance, her Cheshire-cat double-talk, her amusement all struck such a dissonant chord that it screamed for attention. Maybe that was what bothered him—how _obvious_ her oddness was….almost as if it were feigned.

And that's when it clicked in his brain.

"You know what?" Morgan leaned forward, setting both elbows on the table. "I _do_ understand you. You act all calm—but the tautness in your shoulders says that you're tense. You use this…_act_ like some kind of shield. You try to look a little bit off, because you want people to think you're crazy. You _want_ to look incompetent. Makes it that much easier to sneak up and take them by surprise. There's a method to your madness."

Her grin twisted into a wry smirk—he'd hit that nail on the head, and he knew it. "Bravo, Agent Morgan. Now, let's continue unpacking, shall we? Why does that bother you? Because you instinctively know it's an act, and you don't like the idea that someone's trying to pull the wool over your eyes? Because you don't like being tricked?"

"I don't think anyone likes being played," he returned easily.

"Yes, but it's that much more painful when you already have trust issues, isn't it?" She titled her head to the side, eyes narrowing in amusement (though he could still feel the intensity of her scrutiny—she might be smiling, but she was also cataloguing every nuance of his reaction with clinical keenness). "It only affirms that little voice in the back of your head, the one that's whispering to trust no one, because no one can be trusted."

"Maybe," he shrugged. He was more interested in keeping her talking, in letting her unravel more about herself in her analysis of him.

"Or maybe," she took a slight breath, as if preparing herself for whatever may come next. "Maybe you're annoyed with me because for a hot minute, you _were_ fooled—you really did believe I was off my rocker."

Morgan tried to hide his reaction to her statement, but the quick light that flashed in her eyes told him that she'd still seen it.

"That's it, isn't it? You're more upset by being fooled than by the fact that someone tried to fool you in the first place. After all, you're supposed to be the expert on human behavior—it's your job to read the true motives behind the false actions."

"I think you're blowing this out of proportion," he admitted.

"You're right," she gave an easy shrug. "_Upset_ is too strong a word—you're irritated."

He took a moment to consider the statement. "I'd agree to that. I suppose I just don't see the point of it—don't get me wrong, I can see how this whole act would do well in interrogation, but—"

"Aren't we?" She sat up slightly, shifting in her seat as one hand lightly fluttered in reference to their surroundings. "In interrogation, I mean."

He held out his hands in a gesture of defeat. _Touché_.

She smiled, giving a small nod of appreciation for his acknowledgement.

"We all have our survival instincts," she informed him. "For example, yours is to keep quiet, to let everyone else do the talking—even when you're the one being questioned."

Now it was his turn to smile. Of course she'd noticed that even though she was the interviewer, she was the one doing most of the talking.

"I talked to Agent Keller about her interview with you this morning," Eden admitted, glancing away as she shifted gears. "She said that you were succinct. Quick, to the point—never rude but never answering more than was absolutely necessary. Even then, even that early on in the game, you knew that you and your team were potential suspects—your survival instinct had already kicked in, and you were already trying to protect yourself and the rest of the BAU."

"And why would I do that?" Morgan was surprised to realize that he was actually enjoying the conversation—it was far from the cut-and-dried questions that Keller had given earlier, and if nothing else, it was an engaging use of his logic and profiling skills. An even more surprising realization was that his enjoyment was mainly due to Eden's demeanor, which was previously seen a source of irritation—because she asked hard-hitting questions, but she didn't seem to mean them (in fact, the amusement in her tone and the twinkling in her eyes belied the opposite—she didn't believe he was a real suspect, any more than he believed anyone else on his team could be). They were sparring, but it was a fencing match, not a duel to the death.

"Why would I pull the mad hatter routine long before we got into an interview room?" She shrugged with a theatrical nonchalance. "Because from the get-go, we knew we weren't playing for the same team—not really, not in the same way. My team are the outsiders, and truth be told, you never fully trust an outsider, in any situation, no matter how much they claim to be on your side. It just isn't what you do—it isn't what _we_ do. So you protected your team and I played my part—because we both instinctively knew that we could wind up exactly where we are now, on opposite sides of the table, weighing each other's statements and wondering what's true and what's not, and which parts of it matter anyhow."

"Will we ever really know?" He asked with a smile—he was less concerned about the true answer and more intrigued with how Eden would reply to it.

She took a beat to study him down the length of her substantial nose. The corners of her mouth curled into another knowing smirk, "Not until it's all said and done—and by then, it won't matter half as much, will it?"

"I suppose not."

"I suppose not," she repeated. Then, she glanced off into the corner of the room again, as if mentally re-setting herself. "I think it's time we put all the chips on the table."

Now she moved forward, setting her own elbows on the table, tilting her head inwards as if sharing a great secret, "I don't think you did this. Number one, because you just don't fit the bill. Number two, because in order to pull off a stunt like this, you'd need help. And you are not the kind of man who would trust an accomplice."

"Well, nice to see my trust issues are a plus, for once," Morgan admitted. This earned him another grin from his interviewer.

"So…let's talk about the rest of your team," her eyes gleamed, and as before, her demeanor belied that she was playing a game rather than actually running an interrogation. "Do you think any of your colleagues are capable of bombing the office?"

"Absolutely not."

"Are you answering as a friend or as a behavioral analyst?"

"Both," he returned with a little more force than necessary.

Eden sat back, crossing her arms over her chest as she gave him a playfully reprimanding look (_tut-tut, Agent Morgan—we both know you're lying_).

"I've worked with most of these people for over a decade," Morgan flicked his wrists open again in a helpless gesture. "I can't claim that I'm not biased."

"I would be concerned if you thought you could claim such a thing," she admitted easily. "And after over a decade, you should be biased in favor of your team. You have to be. It's the only way you survive."

"But you're still asking me to set aside that bias," Morgan clarified, once again feeling as if they were slipping into some strange, friendly sparring.

"You helped create the profile, correct?" She shifted in her seat again, clasping her hands together and leaning forward on the table.

"Yes. That's how the team works—everyone contributes to the profile."

"So, you can admit that certain aspects of it fit a few of your team members."

Morgan held up a finger as if to stop her train of thought, "As well as a large part of the population at Quantico—being a white male of a certain age, as _you_ pointed out earlier in the briefings."

"That's not the part of the profile I'm referring to." Eden reached into her back pocket to slip out a small notebook, taking the glasses perched atop her head and transferring them to her nose (a movement purely for show, because Morgan was fairly certain that she knew the profile verbatim). "The profile mentioned that there will be something in his recent history that stands out—the supposition being that our UNSUB lost a chance at a promotion, just like John Curtis."

She dipped her head, glancing at Morgan over the top of her glasses, "Would you agree that the loss could be something more personal?"

"Anything's possible," Morgan shrugged. "Though it'd be hard to find someone who could claim that the Bureau responsible for a personal loss."

"Like the death of your wife at the hands of an UNSUB?"

Morgan's heart stopped for a full beat. So that's what this was about.

"Aaron Hotchner would never—"

"Or the loss of your lover at the hands of an UNSUB?"

Shit. They knew about Rossi and Strauss, too.

Morgan's mind immediately flashed with the thought: _Please don't find out about Reid and Maeve_.

The game had stopped. The interrogation had begun.

"Silence," Eden sat back, her tone filled with knowing. "Reverting back to your survival instincts, Agent Morgan. When the answer could only harm—don't answer."

He wanted to be mad, but he couldn't help but be impressed—after all, she'd admitted to putting on the loopy-British-lady act, and had _still_ managed to lull him into believing that she was harmless. He'd been aware of the trap, and still walked into it, without even realizing it.

"You're better than I gave you credit for," he admitted quietly, shifting in his seat.

"Thank you," she gave a simple nod. "Now, back to the question at hand—do you think that your colleagues' personal losses could be a trigger for some kind of retaliatory action against the Bureau?"

"Absolutely not." He answered with full certainty, without a second's hesitation, without too much force or too little conviction.

"And what if we were discussing someone you didn't personally know?" She cocked her head to the side again. Gone was the playful gleam and the amused tones. "What if your analyst handed you this information on a completely unknown UNSUB? What would your inner profiler tell you?"

He fell silent again. She merely smiled. But this one lacked its usual warmth.

It was a hangman's smile.

* * *

"This is one of the very few times in my career that I can honestly say I already regret the questions I'm about to ask you," Jack Dawson slipped into his seat with a light sigh, the haggard lines of his face giving credence to his words. He retained a brusque, efficient air as he continued, "I'm not going to ask for your forgiveness—not because I don't think it's necessary, but because I don't consider my actions worthy of it."

"That's a hell of a lead-in," Aaron Hotchner announced in his usual neutral tone.

Dawson gave a small, tight, mirthless smile, "It's a personal policy to always speak the truth, regardless of how uncomfortable that truth is."

"An admirable policy."

"Doesn't always feel that admirable," Dawson admitted quietly. He sat back in his seat, taking a moment to study the BAU chief. With little ceremony, he announced, "You already know what I'm going to ask about, don't you?"

"I have a pretty good guess."

"O'Donnell wasn't kidding—he nailed you as a top-notch profiler. Said you could read a man from a mile away."

Aaron Hotchner didn't even blink at the praise. "You don't have to be a profiler to know a look of pity when you see one. The look you and your colleagues gave me, whenever you called us in to do the interviews—I've seen it hundreds of times, in a thousand different ways. That comes from being too well acquainted with tragedy, not from being a profiler."

Dawson gave a small nod of understanding. "Then I'll give you the courtesy of shooting straight. The loss of your wife—at the hands of a man whom your team was tracking—is a hard blow for anyone, but even more so with your set of circumstances. Have you ever felt the Bureau was responsible?"

"No." Hotch couldn't help but give a wry smirk as he added, "Though, given the circumstances, what man in situation would admit to feeling that way, if it were true?"

God. Emily Prentiss' smartass irreverence was definitely wearing off on him.

Dawson shrugged, "Point taken. Who do you blame for Haley's death?"

The casual use of Haley's name almost took Aaron's breath away. Generally, whenever he was officially questioned about her death, she was never mentioned by name—simply _your wife_, and always with the heavy connotation that denoted grief and loss. But now, Jack Dawson used her name so easily, as if he were asking what type of flowers she liked, as if he knew her and was her dear friend, as if her name hadn't become a shrine to sorrow and guilt and regret.

"I…I blame myself," Hotch answered honestly, still too shaken up by Dawson's nonchalant name-drop to even attempt to think about the question. "I try not to, but…how can I not?"

"Guilt is a very human emotion," Dawson supplied gently.

He'd revealed too much. He had nothing to hide, but he was also supposed to be proving his innocence, not giving them more ammunition to use in painting him as the UNSUB.

He tried to clarify, "I made regrettable choices, and obviously they've had devastating results, but I've never felt as if the Bureau influenced those choices, nor are they responsible for the results. And yes, I blame myself, but I also blame the man who murdered her—not because he was being hunted by the FBI, but because he was a killer, and he would kill, no matter what. He would have continued to kill, whether or not we continued to pursue him. It's what George Foyet was. Nothing could have changed that."

"Perhaps. But would he have still killed someone you loved?"

"The possibility would have been less likely, but it's still a possibility."

Dawson gave a small smile at that diplomatic answer. He took a beat to observe the Unit Chief before he quietly asked, "If the tables were turned, what would your reaction be?"

"If I were looking for a man with a reason to hate the FBI, and found one with a story like mine, yes, I would definitely take an interest in that person," Aaron Hotchner answered without hesitation, and Jack Dawson admired him for it—this man wasn't trying to hide or explain away the things that made him look guilty, but rather accepted them with a simple _yes, this is part of who I am, but I am not the person who committed this crime_. His candor made him believable.

But Jack Dawson had met many guilty people who seemed innocent, many liars who seemed believable, and many monsters who seemed human.

Things were not always what they seemed.

In fact, things were never what they seemed.

"Your….profile of the UNSUB. It's a joint-effort kind of thing, isn't it?"

"Yes." Aaron Hotchner looked confused, though only briefly. The man was good at masking his current thoughts and emotions.

"So, whose idea was it to make the connection between John Curtis and this particular UNSUB?"

"I don't remember exactly. To be honest, once we realized it had to be an inside man, he was on the forefront of everyone's mind. With the exception of Agent Callahan, the entire team was caught up with the Replicator case—it's hard _not_ to remember him, especially when certain aspects of this case seem to mirror his."

"Who suggested that the FBI was being punished for a professional loss, rather than a personal one?"

"Again, I can't remember. Once we made a correlation to Curtis, it was the next logical assumption."

"So you could have been the one who suggested it?"

"Suggested what?" Hotch wasn't confused, but rather clarifying before he answered.

"That the UNSUB was operating out of some kind of revenge for losing a professional promotion of sorts."

Now Aaron Hotchner took a pause before responding. His voice was slower than usual, "As I've said before, I don't remember exactly who suggested it, so I can't confirm or deny if I was the one who said it out loud—though I'm sure that everyone was thinking it, regardless of who finally spoke the words."

"Let's say that someone _does_ remember who said it—and it turns out to be you. How does that look for you? The man who has a personal loss sends the profile in the opposite direction?"

Hotchner sat back slightly, his dark brows furrowing into a line of disapproval. "I don't like hypotheticals."

"Neither do I," Dawson admitted easily. He rested his elbows on the table, opening his hands in a minute gesture to their surroundings. "But here we are."

There was a heavy beat of silence as the two men stared at each other—Aaron filled with righteous indignation, Jack merely accepting his angry looks with a calmness that was almost unsettling.

Finally, Aaron spoke, his voice still weighted with barely-restrained anger. "I can't convince you of my innocence—nor do I _have_ to. I can't stop you from making me a prime suspect. But eventually, the facts will find in my favor, and you will have wasted valuable time on a false lead. In the meantime, I'm sure there's enough for you to build a case against me, but dig deeper—you'll see that there is no way that I am the UNSUB."

If Hotchner was lying, then he was a consummate performer. Passion, conviction, determination—he had it all. And then again, so did most sociopaths.

* * *

"Agent Eden tells me that you have a photographic memory." SSA Keller's tone was neutral, neither interested nor accusatory.

"Eidetic," Spencer Reid found himself offering the usual correction, with little thought.

"Ah, yes. That's the proper term for it," Keller gave a slight smile. She seemed genuinely embarrassed, and in that moment, Spencer Reid knew that she must be very intelligent—and she prided her intellect, or else she wouldn't be so easily perturbed by being wrong about something so simple.

He took a second to mentally catalogue her—pretty face, definite southern drawl (Georgia or Virginia, if he had to guess—her vowels were closer to seventeenth century lower-class English accents than the twangier Texan accents or the harder-to-define accents of Arkansas or Louisiana, both of which had been settled by French and Spanish rather than English), blonde hair—all those attributes stereotypically reduced her to vapid, uneducated, and just plain dumb, respectively. Yet she wasn't any of those things—and Spencer got the feeling that she fought very hard to prove that, every day of her life. So naturally, she would be very sensitive about anything that fed into the misconception about her lack of intelligence.

He understood her. That wasn't necessary, but it certainly helped to put things in context. _Understand a person, then you'll understand their actions. Understand their actions, you'll know their motivations. Know their motivations, and you'll be able to predict future actions._

Gideon had taught him that. And like most of Gideon's lessons, it had always rung true.

"So you can remember exactly how the profile building session went." There was no hint of a question in Keller's words, but she was still looking at him, waiting for confirmation.

"Yes."

"Who was the first one to suggest the connection to the Replicator case?"

The doctor sat back, his eyes drifting to the ceiling as he mentally re-traced the conversation in his head. "During the actual profile building? David Rossi. But the Replicator had been mentioned several times long before that—and even the people who didn't mention him out loud were thinking about the correlation."

"And how, exactly, did David Rossi come to suggest the connection?" Keller cocked her head to the side, her eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.

Again, another pause as Spencer Reid recalled the session. "Hotch was speaking."

His pace became quicker as he relayed Hotch's words, "'If he were in a position of higher authority, he wouldn't turn to bomb-making; he'd feel fulfilled. We're looking for someone who's been overlooked, someone who does good work, but still remains relatively unnoticed.'"

"And that's what Agent Hotchner said, verbatim."

Reid gave a deft nod.

"So technically, _Hotchner_ is the one who turned the profile towards a John Curtis copycat."

"Technically? No. Taken out of context? Sure." Now the young doctor looked at her with hard eyes—he understood her implication, and he did not approve.

"I'm not sure how that can be taken out of context," she pushed back, her tone still neutral, yet shaded with just enough resonance to imply the force that lay beneath the surface. "After all, you did quote the man, word for word. That last sentence alone recalls Curtis—at least for anyone who has any awareness of the Replicator case, and especially for your team, who had front-row seats to the whole thing."

"We'd already been building the profile at that point—and the things we'd suggested, based on what we knew about the crime at the time, were also items that could just as easily be connected to our profile of John Curtis. So if we're getting _technical_, every single person in the room turned the profile towards a copycat, in some way or another."

"Have you ever lied for a coworker?" Keller suddenly switched gears, without any hint of hesitation, leaning forward slightly.

"Of course," Spencer replied honestly, too taken aback by the change in demeanor to even consider lying.

"How do I know you're not lying now?"

"You don't, I suppose. But you can check my testimony against the rest of the teams—"

"Oh, I assure you, we certainly will. But what if you're all lying?"

"Then you'll know. It's statistically improbable for a group of people to fully carry off a lie of this magnitude."

"There's a world full of conspiracy theorists who would disagree with you," she gave a wry grin.

Spencer allowed a small smile of appreciation for her humor—she was baiting him, asking for more information without actually asking, and he understood that. So he continued, "Even though the number of people involved—if we were involved—is relatively low for this to be considered large-scale, when you take into account the amount of planning and details required, then we could say the lie gets bigger. Which means you have seven people who have to agree to such a plan—seven people who have spent the majority of their life protecting people suddenly agreeing to do the exact opposite of who they are and what they do, might I add—and then you also have seven people trying to keep every aspect of this lie straight in their minds, so that if and when they're questioned, they don't give themselves away by messing up."

"I'm with you so far," Keller gave a slight nod. By now, she'd sat back, crossing her arms over her chest as he'd laid out the groundwork.

"But that's where most of these grand-scale lies do mess up," Spencer informed her. Then he asked, "What was one of the first things you learned about eyewitness testimony?"

"Never trust it," Keller answered automatically. "And never use it as your main line of defense in a criminal trial. Human memory is subjective and fallible."

"Exactly," Spencer pointed at her, as if she were a student who'd answered correctly during a lecture. He leaned in, more excited to share his theory (mainly because she was clearly interested in learning this new concept, and also it didn't hurt that it was further proving his team's innocence). "You see, that's how you'd know it was a lie—because if it were a lie, a set of facts that we'd rehearsed over and over and over again, then we'd remember things _too_ clearly, and our stories would match up _too_ well. It's just like a cop working a wreck—you expect a different version from every single person, simply because that's human nature. But if all the stories were exactly the same?"

"Then something's up," she finished, tilting her head inward to show that she was on the same page.

He nodded. "So there's your baseline. Compare our testimonies—see if they're too similar, and if they are, then you know we're lying."

"And if they're different, then you're telling the truth," she added the flipside of his statement. Now she cocked her head to the side again, the lights from the ceiling catching her glasses as she surveyed him down the length of her nose. "But how do I know that you didn't already plan for this? As you pointed out earlier, a crime of this magnitude would require great attention to detail. Not every agent in the BAU has your IQ, but they're all pretty smart people. And they have you. So why would I assume that part of your plan didn't include making sure your statements were similar enough to be convincing, but different enough to keep from being considered too perfect?"

Spencer Reid sat back, deflated yet relatively unperturbed. "I suppose if you believe we're guilty, there's no amount of evidence that can convince you otherwise. Interpretation is in the eye of the beholder."

The corner of Agent Keller's cupid's bow mouth curled slightly, for the briefest of flashes. She didn't move, but the interrogation itself took another unexpected turn, "SSA Hotchner's wife was killed by an UNSUB the BAU was tracking. Do you think he still holds the FBI responsible for that loss?"

"I don't think he ever held the FBI responsible, so use of the modifier _still_ is a bit misleading—but no to both ideas. If anything, I think he blamed himself."

"But you have to admit, if he weren't working for the BAU, George Foyet would have never come after him—and certainly never killed his wife."

"That's a hypothetical situation. Serial killers kill non-Bureau connected civilians at higher rates than those directly linked to the FBI."

"I'm not talking about statistics, or even probabilities, Dr. Reid. I'm talking about one man, who lost the woman he loved, and how he might rationalize that loss, and who he'd blame for it."

"I've told you—if Hotch blamed anyone besides Foyet, it would be himself. I mean, almost every person on this team has lost someone they've cared about—specifically in a way that could be related to the job—"

"Like Agent Rossi?"

She didn't specify how or whom Agent Rossi had lost, but she didn't have to. Spencer got the distinct feeling that she knew full well.

He fell silent for a moment, reining back the anger that shot up in his veins like a chemical reaction. Then, very carefully, he continued, "As I said, we've all lost someone we care about—and most of us have lost them in ways that could be directly linked to our job. That doesn't make us killers. If any of us had truly blamed the FBI, we would have quit—the basic profile of an agent is someone who believes in loyalty. We wouldn't remain loyal if we thought the Bureau had somehow betrayed us."

"Unless you thought that by staying, you could even the score," Keller returned coolly.

Spencer Reid declined to answer any more questions. It was obvious that everything he said would be used against his team. When confronted with a _damned if you do, damned if you don't_ situation, he often chose the do, simply because he'd rather regret the things he did rather than wonder about the things he didn't—but this was a special circumstance. He was in the lion's den. And when it comes to hungry lions, you don't try to feed them—it doesn't sate their hunger, it merely makes them want more.

* * *

David Rossi made no point of containing his disapproval of the current proceedings. He'd seen the faces of his team members as they'd left the interview rooms—and he'd known that they'd been roughed up (not physically, of course, but psychologically and emotionally, which was a greater affront than if they'd simply been punched in the face). If he'd been the only one enduring such treatment, he wouldn't have batted an eye—but when someone did the same to the people he cared about, it became a big issue, real fast.

It didn't help that the moment he'd walked into the interview room, he'd gotten the distinct feeling that Jonas Shostakovich didn't like him—and the feeling quickly became mutual. The man had a habit of scouring people with his eyes, as if picking them apart for clues—clues of their guilt, not their innocence. He had the weird wariness of the government spooks that Rossi had met over the years, an unsettling, unblinking kind of paranoia that hadn't been evident when they first met but was certainly in high gear by now.

David Rossi was by no means a psychic, but he had a flash of insight that this interview wasn't going to go well at all.

"Where's Agent Eden?" Rossi asked, less out of curiosity and more out of a desire to ruffle some feathers. (_Where's Eden? Cuz I sure as hell don't want to talk to you._)

"She will not be taking part in this interview," Shostakovich informed him easily, glancing down at his notebook with disinterest. He added, quite nonchalantly, "She's emotionally compromised, when it comes to you."

Ah. There was definitely an accusation there. Rather than deny it, Rossi gave a lazily theatrical shrug of his shoulder, "She's a good woman. She knows a good man when she sees one."

Now Shostakovich's latent anger turned to amusement—a true, deep smile cracked his face, shifting its appearance entirely. "David Rossi, your reputation of old precedes you, but let me assure you, you are not her type."

"Is that first-hand knowledge speaking?" The Italian couldn't resist.

"Yes. But not in the way that you're implying," Shostakovich sat back, easily flipping open his notepad. "Though I've got a…hunch, if you will, that you had a similar first-hand knowledge of Chief Strauss."

David Rossi stopped cold. Shostakovich's nonchalance dissipated, his hawk-eyes taking in every movement of the other man's muscles.

Damn. Jude had been right—whatever was there, it was deeper than a fling. Jonas had wanted to shake Rossi up, take him by surprise with the question in order to get a genuine reaction—but God, he hadn't wanted to emotionally _wound_ the man.

Rossi still didn't respond. His surprise transformed to anger, which in turn muted into slightly-less-volatile-but-even-more-uncooperative mulishness. If this entire session was merely going to be about dragging Erin's name through the mud, then he would not-so-politely decline to have any part of it.

Of course, in that moment, Erin Strauss' voice popped into his head, _I told you this would come back to bite us in the ass, David. _

Sweet Jesus in short-pants. That woman would come back from the grave just to be able to say _I told you so_. David fought the urge to laugh, realizing it would not help his defense of being a sane man.

"You cared about her. Very much." Shostakovich stated gently, sympathy suddenly lining the creases around his eyes.

David remained silent, though it took every ounce of self-control not to retort: _Of course I cared about her, you ass!_ Contrary to whom his reputation painted him as, David Rossi had long outgrown the need for thoughtless flings and unattached couplings. Maybe it was old age creeping in, but he'd found it so unfulfilling that it wasn't even worth the time. Then, of course, there was the glaringly obvious fact that his old-school romantic self needed something more than an occasional roll in the sack—he needed intention and seduction and attraction that went beyond the physical. However, for as long as he lived, no matter how much he changed or even proved that he had done so, he would be forever cast as the Don Juan of the Quantico. Not the worst reputation to be pinned with, to be sure, but one that certainly had its own set of burdens—more often than not, it was simply tiring.

Shostakovich was silent now, waiting for Rossi to respond. However, the BAU agent stared back sans expression, clearly indicating his lack of cooperation in the matter.

"You _did_ care about Erin Strauss, didn't you?" Jonas prompted.

"I believe this interview was supposed to relate to the case—you know, the horrific bombing that took place earlier today?" The sarcasm was dripping from every single syllable as David Rossi enunciated his words slowly, a sure sign that he was holding back his anger as best he could.

"Oh, it does," Jonas assured him easily, unperturbed by the warning in Rossi's tone. He sat back, lazily flipping another page in his notepad, "You see, your friend Agent Eden has the bright idea that perhaps this attack is about something more personal—yes, still about some kind of loss, still holding the Bureau responsible for that loss, but a loss that's much deeper than the professional side allows."

Now Shostakovich paused, gaze flicking back up to Rossi's face as he raised his eyebrows questioningly, "Kind of like how you lost Erin."

If Jonas were a betting man, he'd have placed every penny on an explosive reaction from the infamously volatile Italian. However, the opposite happened—David Rossi became very still again, and the light behind his eyes simply switched off.

So Jonas needled a little bit further, forcing a shade of wry amusement into his tone, "If you weren't having an affair with your Section Chief, now would be a good time to deny it."

Not even a flicker. Not even a flinch. Same blank expression, same unimpressed stare.

Damn. This man was gonna be a tough one to crack.

But Jonas Shostakovich wasn't one to shy away from a challenge. He pushed onward, "I'm sure you can see the parallels—you, the big-shot FBI-agent-turned-celebrity-author, returning to the BAU, pushed aside into a subordinate position by the kids _you_ trained. And when you finally find something to make it worthwhile—a relationship with Erin Strauss—it's taken away from you by the Bureau. Because she gets killed by an UNSUB whom the Director specifically told your team to stop hunting."

"Murdered."

"Excuse me?"

The dark-haired man looked up to meet Jonas' gaze, his expression still flat and lifeless. "Murdered. Erin Strauss wasn't killed, she was murdered."

Rossi had told himself that he wouldn't speak until a legitimate question was asked, but he couldn't allow the mistake to go by unchecked. _Killed_ sounded passive—anyone could be killed, by anything, by cancer or a car accident or a fall down the stairs or the goddamned flu. But murder—now _that_ was active, direct, that was planned and committed and hatefully horrible and not a mere accident of life. It irked him when someone said Erin was killed, because it made it sound like it was ordinary, accidental, unpreventable, like she hadn't cried and fought and lost in the most tragic of ways. Like she hadn't known was what coming, like there was some kind of peace or logic to be found in it all.

Jonas Shostakovich seemed to understand his mistake, because he simply gave a slow nod, "She was murdered. Of course. I apologize."

There was a beat of silence as the two men allowed this small moment of agreement between them.

Shostakovich leaned forward, his face etched with concerned confusion, his voice dipping into an almost-soothing low cadence, "But don't you ever think about it? Doesn't it ever bother you, knowing that if the Director hadn't ordered your team off the Replicator case, then Erin would still be alive?"

"Did you know Chief Strauss personally?" Rossi leaned forward as well, clasping his hands in front of him.

Jonas took a pause, slightly confused by the question, "No, I did not."

"Then please refer to her by her title." Rossi offered a tight smile. "Professional courtesy."

The other man simply sat back again, giving a small smile of irritation and frustration at the man seated before him. Of course, he'd been using Chief Strauss' first name in an attempt to re-ignite the sense of familiarity between Rossi and his deceased lover—it was Basic Interrogation 101, hitting deeper emotional responses by using familiarity. And of course, David Rossi had seen through the ruse, and wasn't allowing himself to be sucked into it. _Well played, Agent Rossi, well played_.

David didn't smile back. Jonas hadn't expected him to.

"You never answered the question, Agent Rossi."

"I'm not sure I ever heard one."

"_Chief_ Strauss would still be alive today if your team hadn't been called off the Replicator case—do you have a problem with that?"

"I have a problem with the construct of your question," David admitted easily. "Chief Strauss was the reason John Curtis felt so vengeful in the first place—there's no guarantee that he wouldn't have gone after her, even if the BAU had still been on the case. In fact, given the amount of photographs we found of Chief Strauss in John Curtis' collection, it was obvious that she'd most likely been the main target of his anger for quite some time, and in a much more personal manner than the rest of the BAU. Which means there isn't even a guarantee that he wouldn't have still tried to exact some kind of revenge against Strauss even if he'd been hired onto the BAU. He was a nutjob; by his very nature he's unpredictable."

Shostakovich gave a slight shrug at this last pronouncement—he couldn't argue with that. He sat up slightly, as if he were going to ask another question, but David Rossi was angry and on a roll.

"Now you asked if I have a problem with that—and yeah, I do. I have a problem with someone hiring this obviously unstable person to work in highly sensitive areas of government, because a basic psych eval should have uncovered his issues. I have a problem with losing a woman I loved in a senseless way, to a coward with a god complex who thought he was too damn special to ever be told no. I have a problem with knowing that I should have been with her when he showed up, that every single thing about that night should have gone in a completely different direction. I have a problem with knowing that I caught him, but it wasn't soon enough. I have a problem with the long list of victims that bratty little twit murdered, simply because he didn't get his way—and yeah, I have a problem with knowing that list could've been a helluva lot shorter, if we hadn't been officially called off the case."

He took a deep breath, slowing down the rapid-fire litany to give Jonas Shostakovich a meaningful stare. "But I don't solve my problems like a coward. You can go back and look at the de-briefing transcripts, at every post-action interview related to the Replicator case—I told them what I thought about it all, from day one. And not once did I lay the fault at the Director's door, or at the Bureau's, either, for that matter. I got a lot of problems with that whole case and how it went down, but I don't hold the FBI responsible. It's the job—you know that, I know that, anyone who's been an agent for more than five minutes knows that. Choices are made, tough calls are part of the process. We don't get the luxury of second-guessing and playing coulda-woulda-shoulda. Sometimes politics get into the mix, and heads have to roll, but I'm not a politician and I sure as hell ain't the executioner."

He sat back, fully divested of all that he'd needed to say, and Jonas Shostakovich couldn't help but admire the hell out of him for his brutal honesty.

Still, Shostakovich wasn't there to be impressed. He quietly asked, "Then what are you, exactly?"

Now David Rossi gave a rueful smile, "Hell if I know. I suppose I'm just here for the fun of it."

* * *

"_Your suspiciousness of me is merely a reflection of your distrustful condition and not any cause of my actions."_

_~Vanessa P. A. Evelyn._


	28. Criss-Cross

**Criss-Cross**

"_My past has not defined me, destroyed me, deterred me, or defeated me; it has only strengthened me."__  
~__Steve Maraboli._

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Christ Almighty, Jude, for the tenth time, yes, I went easy on him—"

"Good. He's a sweet boy. He certainly doesn't deserve you at your most severe."

"I think there was actually a compliment in there—"

"Are you sure he was fine when he left?"

Jessalyn Keller gave a dramatic sigh, flopping her head onto the back of the couch as she looked up at the ceiling in exasperation. She'd been back in the break room for a total of five minutes and Judith Eden had been grilling her the entire time. "Yes. Jude. He was _fine_. Spencer Reid is tougher than you give him credit for, by the way—"

"Either way, he's darling and I like him and I feel a certain…obligation to him," Jude admitted, giving a small nod of approval at Keller's assessment.

"Obligation?" Sura Roza piped up from her station across the room. "What the hell kind of obligation do you have to someone you've just met?"

Jude furrowed her brows as she contemplated the question, "I don't know, really—I just—well, you'd have to meet him to understand, Sura. He's very sweet."

"You said that. Several times," Jessalyn Keller pointed out flatly, her gaze still locked onto the ceiling tiles.

"And smart."

Jess hummed in agreement.

"And he's just…he has puppy eyes."

"Really?" Keller's tone was still dry. "That's all it takes for you?"

"He is a decent human being and a good agent—and he doesn't deserve to be treated badly, regardless of how I feel about him," Jude defended herself swiftly, her words having a bite to them. "None of them do. I feel guilty enough for even having to consider them suspects, much less all the digging around we've had to do—and to make matters worse, we've actually had to use their pasts _against_ them."

"It's part of the job," Keller returned quietly. Her voice was still neutral, but anyone who knew Jess could hear the beginnings of sympathy dancing at the edges of her tone.

"That doesn't make it any easier," the older woman's voice was equally quiet. With a sigh, she leaned back against the couch again. After a beat, she wearily added, "It just doesn't feel right. You don't turn the tables on your own."

Sura gave a small hum of agreement. She'd felt exactly the same way, and had expressed a variation of that sentiment to Jack just a few hours earlier. Thankfully, she knew that despite Jude's disapproval at the current state of affairs, the Englishwoman would never voice her thoughts outside of the Flying J's inner circle. Still, Jude's vehemence against going into the BAU's personal lives was a bit surprising. Normally, she would have understood and simply chalked it up to a casualty of current circumstances, but something had her spooked.

Jonas Shostakovich breezed into the room with a heavy sigh. He looked like he'd been through a ringer.

Jude was on her feet again. "What'd you do?"

He started at her for a moment, blinking in incomprehension. "My job. I did my job—which is exactly what you should be doing, too."

Jess looked away, bringing her gaze to the ground. Sura kept her eyes glued on the two agents.

If Jude was affected by her friend's admonition, she didn't show it. "How did he seem, when the interview ended?"

"Belligerent, pissed as hell, uncooperative, ready to deck me in the face if I so much as looked sideways at him—all the things I'd be, if I were in his shoes," Jonas admitted with an easy shrug.

"You pushed his buttons." A statement, not a question.

"I did my job."

"I'm sure that's exactly what Truman said after Nagasaki," she shot back hotly. "But that doesn't undo the damage that's been done."

"Damage? How could you possibly know what kind of damage—"

"Because I have a brain and a moderate dose of compassion, which tells me that if I ever lost someone I love in the field, it would have devastating effects on my life. You said yourself that if you ever lost Lise—"

"I would still expect the investigating officer to do whatever was necessary to clear my name as quickly as possible," his voice rose a notch above normal volume, just loud enough to begin drawing attention, if anyone else were nearby.

Now Jess looked up, her eyes filled with concern as she gently warned, "Guys…"

"I knew you would make this personal," Jude ignored the warning, though her voice went lower, into a hiss. "You accuse _me_ of letting past cases and personal feelings get in the way, but god, would you look at yourself?"

She didn't wait for a response. She turned on her heel and left the room.

An awkward, ugly silence reigned.

Jess shifted uncomfortably, cleared her throat. Her voice was barely audible and her gaze never met Jonas'. "She…she didn't meant that."

"I know," he answered simply. Then he sank onto the couch, deflated and drawn. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to scrub away the fatigue and frustration. "But even if she was just blowing hot air, she had a point. We're all losing it, slowly but surely."

"Speak for yourself," Sura spoke up. "I'm still running in prime-time, and it's fucking fabulous."

Jonas gave a weary smile at the pronouncement—he knew that she was trying to diffuse the situation, as best she knew how.

Jack Dawson entered the room, taking a moment to glance around before cautiously asking, "Where's Jude?"

"Probably consoling David Rossi, if I had to wager a guess," Shostakovich offered flatly, running a hand over his short-cropped hair. Jessalyn Keller was studying the floor as if it were the most complex thing she'd seen all day—a move that also allowed her to avoid eye-contact with her supervisor.

Dawson looked back at Sura, who merely raised her eyebrows (_yeah, the fight's back on again_).

"Jesus, can't you two keep it together for five minutes?" Dawson shook his head in irritation. He'd planned to send Jonas and Jude to the hospital to interview the remaining BAU agent, but with them at-odds again, it would be counter-productive. "I suppose this means I'll be tagging along with Eden to speak to SSA Jareau."

"I could go," Keller offered tentatively. Dawson knew she was trying to be helpful—for Keller to willingly spend more time with Eden, it must mean that things were looking dire.

He sighed again, "No, I'd prefer to keep the scales balanced."

She knew what he meant—one male and one female agent in each location. It wasn't sexist, but rather strategic. Besides, everyone knew that Eden and Keller didn't jive well, and the less tension surrounding his team, the better.

Of course, it also gave him a chance for a good, long, uninterrupted talk with Jude, and that certainly didn't hurt, either.

He glanced at his watch again. "We've got our last official briefing for the night in ten minutes, but I'm having a private chat with O'Donnell just before we bring everyone back into the room. I'm going to recommend that he allow the BAU to go home tonight—"

"Is that really a good idea?" Sura seemed unsure.

"If anyone runs, it'll be an admission of guilt. And if any of the BAU is the UNSUB, he's in it for the long haul—if he were going to run, he'd have already done so."

"Or she," Keller offered, almost out of habit. Though she certainly couldn't see Kate Callahan mixing up bombs in her spare time.

Dawson continued, turning his attention back to Sura, "When do you think you'll reach a stopping point for the night?"

"A stopping point? Never." She tilted her head towards the laptop screen. "I'm organizing the audio recordings of the preliminary interviews being conducted the other agents—we've already got transcriptionists working on the earlier interviews and shooting them back—and then I'm running the transcripts through a matrix, which searches for certain phrases or words that might link to our UNSUB."

"But…how do you know which phrases or words to search for?" Jonas was baffled.

"Well, I don't—not really," Sura was unfazed by the thought. "I just guess, and see where it leads me. Like you and your hunches."

"Has anyone ever told you that you are a strange and wonderful creature?" Jonas asked, half in jest.

She offered a sly grin. "Only every day of my life."

Dawson merely rolled his eyes at the quip.

"Alright," he gave one last glance around the room. "Keller and Shostakovich, I'll see you in ten—we've moved briefings to Room 117, since Sura's in here. Roza, try not to burn this place to the ground before I get back."

"No promises," Sura retorted cheerfully, fluttering her fingertips to wave him on. Then she reached out dramatically, her voice quavering with false emotion. "I love you, Jack."

Another _Titanic_ reference, which of course earned her another roll of his eyes as he opened the door and walked out, holding up the middle finger as he left.

He could still hear her laughter as he headed down the hallway.

* * *

Adelaide Macaraeg was walking through the Academy's front door when she spotted David Rossi, who was barreling through the halls with a certain sense of foreboding. Unsure of what else to say, she simply stopped and announced, "Geez, you look like hell."

"Well, that's where I've been," he informed her, a bit more harshly than he'd intended. Her thin brows shot up in surprise, and he reminded himself that she was not the object of his anger. He took a deep breath, shaking his head, "I just—you'd think that eventually, who you used to be is going to stop following you around everywhere you go."

A shadow of understanding passed through her amber eyes. She felt a flicker of guilt—because earlier, she'd made insinuations about his motivations, based on the person he used to be (or at least the person he'd been rumored to be).

Rossi collected his thoughts, becoming slightly more reserved. "It's just been a long day. Longer still when you're the one pegged as a suspect."

Mac glanced away, almost as if embarrassed—he understood that her professional integrity wouldn't allow her to ask, wouldn't allow her to know anything more than she already did, because she couldn't afford to be biased, but he also saw that she wanted to ask, wanted to know that they were all OK.

"We're gonna be just fine," he assured her. She looked back at him again, this time with a small smile.

"Let's take a walk," she jerked her head towards the door.

"Now?"

"Good a time as any. Besides, the air's nice and cool. It'll do ya good." She didn't touch him, but merely held up her arm, as if ushering him towards the exit.

"I need to get back to my team—"

"And your team doesn't need to see you like this." She set her hands on her hips, tilting her head to one side as she catalogued him, "You're tense, you're pissed, and you look like someone might have just killed your pet hamster. Tell me how on earth that's gonna be reassuring to your team members right now."

"We don't hide how we feel," he retorted gently. "It's one of the perks of being a family."

She gave the softest of smiles at that statement. However, she wasn't letting up. She silently motioned towards the door again.

He was too tired to resist, shaking his head as he went. Mac followed him, making a small noise as the cold air greeted them.

"So where are we going, on this walk?" He waited for her to catch up to him, tucking his hands in his pockets and wishing that he'd brought along a coat.

"Just around." She gave a slight shrug. Waving her fingers around the general area, she added in a falsely somber tones, "Go where the spirit moves you."

The small huff she got in response informed her that David Rossi definitely wasn't the kind of man who went where the spirit moved him.

They began walking around the edge of the building, falling into a comfortable silence.

"For what it's worth, I know you're innocent." Macaraeg glanced down at her feet.

"In times like this, that simple faith is worth more than you realize." He took a beat before asking a question that had been on his mind for a while, "Speaking of innocence—how's Agent Lewis doing?"

She laughed at this (because _innocence_ was not a term that would ever evoke Rowena Lewis' image, at least not in her mind), shaking her head because she understood what Rossi was really asking (_you weren't too hard on the girl, were you?_). "Still looking out for your little friend, I see."

She stopped herself quickly, realizing the jab she'd made too late. "I'm sorry—you just mentioned being judged for your past self, and here I am, making insinuations—"

"It's OK," he waved away the apology. Then, with a wicked grin, he added, "Besides, Agent Lewis isn't exactly my type. I prefer women who are a little more…vintage."

He glanced over to watch her reaction in the dim lamplight. She kept her gaze on the ground, but her eyebrows quirked in amusement, "You like a little extra patina on your precious metals?"

Now it was his turn to laugh, "Someone's a Sons of Anarchy fan."

"I could say the same about you, since you obviously got the reference," she gave an easy smile. "I have to admit, I'm a little surprised you did—rogue bikers doesn't seem your speed."

"I could say the same about you," he returned.

"Ah," she gave a slight nod of appreciation for his ability to use her own words against her. "But then again, sir—you don't know me."

"And you, madame, don't know me."

By now, they were both grinning madly, and she simply laughed, "Touché."

_Danger danger danger_, beeped the voice in Adelaide's head. You'd have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to know that David Rossi was flirting, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to know that she was flirting back—the _exact_ thing that she'd told herself not to do.

But he brought it out in her. She couldn't help it.

That made him dangerous. Very dangerous.

"How ya feeling now?" She asked gently, switching gears before things got too close to that line she'd never cross again with a colleague.

"Better," he took a deep breath. "Thank you."

She smiled, "Just returning the favor."

She turned in a small circle, trying to get her bearings in the dark. She found another entrance and headed for it. They walked into the wing that held the BAU's unofficial conference room.

"Well, lookit that," she held her hands open. "Back where you wanted to be."

"Agent Rossi," another female voice interrupted their conversation. David looked up to see Judith Eden stretching her long legs double-time, slightly breathless as she asked, "Are you alright?"

Adelaide Macaraeg's eyes were so wide that she looked almost comical. Honestly, David was equally surprised by Eden's concern.

"I'm fine," he assured her, trying not to let his shock show.

"I just—I know Vichie can be a real Torquemada when he puts his mind to it," Judith explained, shaking her head. "I'm sorry if he turned that on you."

Then, suddenly remembering her manners, Judith offered her hand to Mac, "Judith Eden—we've met, but not properly."

Mac nodded in agreement—there had been a quick round of introductions when the briefings had begun, but nothing beyond a list of who's who and what they did. "Adelaide Macaraeg. You can call me Mac."

"Mac." Eden gave a curt nod of approval. "I apologize for interrupting. I just…."

She glanced back at Rossi, her dark eyes filled with compassion, "I knew that Vichie was going to be pushing some buttons, and I…I wanted to make sure that you were OK. Given…the circumstances."

She was trying to talk about his off-limits relationship without actually talking about it—he respected her attempts to give him some kind of privacy, especially considering the fact that she wasn't sure if Mac knew, or how much David Rossi wanted the world to know about his previous relationship with Erin Strauss.

"I am." He assured her. "But thank you."

She gave a small smile, taking a moment to glance at Mac as well, "Then I suppose my work here is done. I'll see you both at the briefing."

She turned and left, just as quickly as she'd come.

There was a beat of silence as the two remaining agents digested what had just happened.

Per usual, David Rossi spoke first, "Now would be a good time to feign jealous rage—always helps to make a guy feel special."

Macaraeg's laugh shattered the stillness of the hallway. "David Rossi, you'd be better off waiting for hell to freeze over. I'm not the jealous type."

"Oh, really?" He arched his eyebrow, pretending to give her a critical once-over, "Lack of jealousy denotes a high sense of self-confidence."

"Well you know what they say," she began backpedaling down the hallway, opening her arms in a gesture of acceptance. "It ain't cocky if you really are awesome."

He laughed, unable to come up with a retort to such a line.

"See ya at the briefing," she turned around and continued down the hall, flashing one last smile over her shoulder.

"See ya. And Mac—"

"Yeah?" She stopped, pivoting back again to watch him with curious eyes.

"Thanks." It was a simple word, but it held a lot.

She smiled again. "Anytime. Like I said—just returning the favor."

He nodded, making his way back to the BAU's room. He watched her breeze down the corridor—she wasn't short, but her build was slight, and yet, you couldn't tell it. She walked like she owned the place, filling the hallway with her presence, like she could put anyone _in_ their place, if push came to shove. Yes, confidence generally destroyed any sense of jealousy or envy, but man, it had the opposite effect on attraction.

As soon as he entered the room, the rest of his team turned their faces towards him, all lined with worry—he wasn't the only one who'd lost a lover, but his loss was the most recent.

"Y'Okay?" Hotch asked quietly, his dark eyes filled with concern.

"Yeah. I think I am, actually."

* * *

_**A Few Hours Earlier.**_

_**The Washington Daily Editorial Offices. Washington, D.C.**_

"Alright, Salander," Linnea Charles breezed into the room, taking a moment to sling her bag from her shoulder to the chair at her desk as she continued moving across the now-empty bullpen towards her coworker. "Show me what you've got."

Karl Miramontz merely smiled—Linnea didn't patronize him by asking _if_ he'd found anything, but rather showed her faith in his abilities by asking _what_ he'd found.

He twirled his seat back to face his computer screen. "Welp, I've got you—your email address, your IP address, all the markers that authenticate this email's point of origin—sending this heads up to three news channels and six competing newspapers."

"What?" She was obviously shocked with the results. "There's no way—I mean, you know I'd never just give a story like this away!"

Karl held up his finger, as if to stop her protest. "But—I also have you, logging into the accountability journal ten minutes later, from your cellphone. Your cellphone, whose GPS had you halfway to Quantico. There's no possible way that you could send the email and then drive that far in ten minutes."

"Hell, I couldn't even send the email and get my car out of the parking garage in ten minutes," Linnea's tone was filled with wonder. "Who'd have ever thought that freaking accountability journal would actually be helpful?"

Karl chuckled in agreement. The nature of their work wasn't well suited for standard business hours, so the paper didn't have any kind of time-clock, opting instead to function on the honor system. However, the joke was that their editor obviously believed that his journalists had no honor, because he'd installed the accountability journal—an app that allowed everyone to log in and mark their whereabouts and update their comings and goings. In truth, it was an easy way for the paper's secretary to figure out where each person was during the day, should they need to be reached for some emergency or another. And in moments like this, it also could save a reporter's ass.

"Does the boss know about this yet?" Linnea asked, dreading the answer.

"Not unless you told him," Karl returned easily. His coworker breathed a sigh of relief, giving him a grateful pat on the back as she moved back to her own desk.

Lightly ruffling her fingers through her hair, Linnea took a moment to simply stand in front of her desk, staring at the photo in the corner—her and her baby sister, smiling, happy, oblivious to the future.

This story had a bad feel to it. Everything about it screamed with foreboding. And yet, true to her nature, Linnea Donovan Charles wasn't going to back down. It had already become too personal.

* * *

"_When you reach the end of what you should know, you will be at the beginning of what you should sense."__  
__~Kahlil Gibran._

* * *

**_*Author's Note: Mac's line about liking "a little more patina" does, as mentioned, come from the TV series Sons of Anarchy-therefore, credit goes to Kurt Sutter, who wrote the line (Eps 5.1: Sovereign, for those who like specifics)._**

**_And, as always, a huge THANK YOU to everyone who has left reviews and/or followed/favorited/etc. I haven't gotten back on several reviews from last week's update, and I apologize-but I will soon! Thanks again for making this such a fun ride!*_**


	29. Hiding In Plain Sight

**Hiding In Plain Sight**

"_The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes."__  
~__Arthur Conan Doyle._

* * *

_**The Washington Daily Editorial Offices. Washington, D.C.**_

"Lin. What're you doing, Lin?" Karl Miramontz's tone was lined with cautious concern. In general, he was used to the weirdness of the journalists with whom he worked, but Linnea was definitely acting out of character—she'd stood stock-still at her desk for several minutes, staring blankly at a photograph, and then suddenly, she'd sprung back to life, rummaging through her desk drawers with alarming recklessness.

"I—uh—I'm—" Linnea Charles cut herself off, distracted by her efforts. She slammed a drawer closed and opened another, her long fingers scrabbling through piles of notebooks and scraps of paper. "I need—somewhere there's a…."

She stopped to read a piece of paper before tossing it aside again. "I'm looking for a flyer from one of the support groups I used to attend—it's been ages since—wait, you could find it for me!"

"I…can?" Karl was still seated at his own desk, his face skewed in a mixture of confusion and concern. Everyone in the office was aware of Linnea Charles' personal tragedy, but she hardly ever spoke about it.

"Yeah," Linnea stopped her search, sitting back in her chair as she looked up at the ceiling, trying to recall the information. "It's…ah…a grief support group—bereavement, that's the term they like to use—it meets on Wednesdays at 7pm. At the…Saint something church on…10th Street."

Karl had already turned back to his computer, typing in what little details she'd given. After a beat, he read the search results, "Saint Michael's?"

"Yes. Of course. Michael, patron saint of police officers," Linnea reconnected old dots. "That's why she was there—her mother was…some kind of agent or something."

"They have several bereavement meet-ups during the week," Karl was looking at the online calendar.

"Anything for tonight?"

"Yeah, but you'll barely make it—it started half an hour ago."

"That's OK." Linnea was on her feet again, scrambling to regather her things. "I don't need the support—just the people in the group itself."

"What…are you—you know what, nevermind," Karl sat back, holding up his hands in defeat. "Just lemme know if you need anything else. I'll be here til about ten."

"Will do. Thanks again, Karl."

"Sure." He waited until she was out of the room before quietly adding, "Well, at least she keeps it interesting."

* * *

_**Several Hours Later.**_

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Derek Morgan gave a heavy sigh as he left the briefing room. After this last round of interviews, _friendly_ was not the best term to describe this particular gathering. Dawson had insisted on keeping the BAU in the loop—a sign that they took as a silent affirmation of his faith in their collective innocence, though it was also an action that could come back to bite him in the ass when the suits in D.C. got involved.

Everyone had been civil, but at this point, it was the most that could be expected, given the circumstances. Derek Morgan had not missed how Adelaide Macaraeg had taken moment to silently glance over at Rossi, as if checking in to make sure he was still OK—and true to form, Derek Morgan would also not miss the chance to mention this to Rossi as soon as possible. There really never was a good time to start a romance in this line of work, but the Italian definitely had the worst possible timing.

But there were more important matters at hand. He pulled out his phone, redialing the number for Penelope's current replacement phone.

She answered on the first ring, breathless with worry, "What is it who is it are you all OK?"

"OK. First—breathe."

He could actually hear her doing just that.

He grinned, keeping his voice as soothingly calm as possible, "Now, Mama Hen, all your chicks are safe in the nest for now. I was calling because I have good news."

"Oh thank goodness. Lay it on me, Hot Stuff."

"We've got the official greenlight from the investigative team—they're letting us go home tonight." He couldn't help reverting back to their usual playful tone as he added, "Which means that I can grab two pints of Ben &amp; Jerry's Boom Chocolatta and be on your couch within the hour."

It was a silly thing, but it was a ritual they'd developed over the years—when someone had been hurt, or there had been a particularly stressful case, he'd show up with ice cream and they'd spend the night noshing and unpacking the events of the day. It usually ended with a competition to see who could balance their spoon on the tip of their nose the longest, followed by Penelope trying to convince him to do something ridiculous, like dye his goatee pink or get a face tattoo. That was how he knew that she was truly OK again—when she was his silly, outrageous Babygirl again. It had been a long time since they'd had to enact this ritual, but today certainly qualified as one of those days.

However, today was the first time that Penelope actually hesitated. "Oh. Um. It's just that—well, Sam's coming to pick me up."

"Oh." He stopped for a moment, not sure why he was so shocked by this idea, but shocked nonetheless. He didn't know what else to say, so he just said, "Well, of course, Babygirl."

"It's not that I wouldn't love to—and it's definitely not that this day doesn't deserve chocolate therapy." That was the name they'd given it, mainly because Penelope always has some form of chocolate in her ice cream. "It's just…he's been so stressed about this whole thing. He's not used to it, like we are."

"I understand." He should be going home to Savannah anyways. He should have thought of her first—shouldn't he?

"I'm actually waiting for him right now." Penelope's voice seemed strained, as if she were looking for something to talk about, looking for a distraction. "I'm still at the hospital with JJ—apparently, I'm going to be here for a while. The technical analyst for the investigative team just called a few minutes ago—they're sending some agents to question me and JJ."

"So you have to wait at the hospital?" Morgan felt a flash of anger for the Flying J's lack of consideration.

"Honestly, I'd rather answer their questions here than have them in my home."

"I suppose so," he tamped down his momentary outrage. He couldn't stop himself from asking, "And Sam doesn't mind the wait?"

"He says he's always waiting on me, in some way or another."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"I dunno." Penelope was lying, and they both knew it. "He's glad I'm OK. The rest is just details."

"Of course." Derek Morgan was tabling the series of questions that needed to be asked about Sam's response for a later date, when Penelope was back to full strength and could handle them. They both seemed to understand that.

"I am…I'm glad that I was still your first thought," she admitted softly.

"Of course you are. You're…you're Penelope." He knew it sounded stupid, but it was the only explanation he could find—she was Penelope, his Babygirl, his best friend, his first thought in times of danger and his last thought at the end of a good day. "And that will never change."

"Well." He could hear the smile in her voice. "You sound pretty sure of yourself, sailor."

"Babydoll, you can't change perfection."

"Then it looks like we're stuck this way forever." There was definitely a mischievous grin on her face now, he knew it without even being able to see it.

"I'm quite alright with that."

"Me, too."

"Call or text when you're home safe, 'kay?"

"Aye, Captain Handsome."

"Really?"

"It's been a long day. I'm not at my best, right now."

"Alright. I'll give you that one, then."

"I love you so, silly boy."

"And I love you, too, silly girl." He slipped his phone into his back pocket just as David Rossi appeared at his side.

"So, how's Penelope?" Rossi's tone was conversational, pleasant, as if they hadn't just spent the last half-hour in a room filled with people who thought they were domestic terrorists or at least accomplices.

"OK, I think."

"Have you called Savannah yet?"

Man, the insinuation in that question was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Morgan ignored it, choosing to beat Rossi on his own level by bluntly switching paths, "So, what's up with you and Macaraeg?"

"_Up_?" Rossi held a tone of high disdain, as if the word itself were an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

A sure sign that he was trying to hide something.

"Yeah, man. She was giving you the eye in there—"

"She was not _giving me the eye_." Again, the pure disdain was a dead giveaway. Rossi became mocking and scornful whenever he was trying to deflect attention away from the question at hand.

"You know, Rossi, your vehement reaction in repeating everything I say only cements my belief that something is, in fact, _up_ with you two." Morgan was calm and collected, though inwardly, he was dancing with glee. Aside from teasing Reid, winding up Rossi was one of his favorite on-the-job pastimes.

"While I applaud you for attempting to add some spice to this obviously bland and boring case, let me assure you that nothing is happening and nothing will happen between me and Mac."

And there it was. The sarcasm. Trademark Rossi avoidance technique.

"OK, man. You keep toeing the line." Morgan gave a nonchalant shrug, knowing it would only antagonize his colleague. "I just call 'em like I see 'em. Whether or not you want to admit to it, that's up to you."

By now, Aaron Hotchner had joined them—and though he said nothing, he'd been listening with a wicked grin.

Rossi merely glanced back at him (_don't you start, too_).

Hotch just shrugged, as if to imply that he was staying out of it.

But as they continued down the hallway, Rossi could hear his unit chief humming The Eagles' _Lyin' Eyes_.

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia?"

Penelope whirled around at the sound of an unfamiliar voice—though she had to admit, she liked the unknown owner. He wore the salt and pepper look well, with some baby blues that could stop a girl's heart.

"Yes," she stepped forward, unnecessarily. She glanced over at Baby Blues' companion—a willow of a woman with kind eyes.

"Agent Jack Dawson," Baby Blues offered his hand. "And yes, like that Jack Dawson."

She smiled at the comparison.

"Judith Eden," Willow Woman smiled and shook hands as well. "And yes, like that garden."

Now Penelope was truly grinning—they had sense of humor, which was always a good sign.

"Sorry to make you wait," Dawson gave a distracted motion towards the rest of the hospital in general. He knew that Sura had offered to let them meet Garcia at her own home, but she'd refused—still, he felt it a matter of form to apologize anyways.

"No worries—it wasn't a bad wait," Penelope informed him with a small smile of reassurance as they all settled into chairs in the ICU's private waiting room. "JJ—Agent Jareau—is one of my best friends. So getting to be here, even if it's just keeping watch outside her door, is kind of comforting. It's ridiculous, because if anything were to happen to her, there's nothing I could do to change it, but still…."

"But still, it makes you feel a little less helpless," Agent Eden finished for her, her compassionate features etched with understanding.

Penelope nodded, blinking back a fresh onslaught of tears—she wasn't a frozen-hearted rock by any stretch of the imagination, but today's stress and her lack of sleep certainly weren't helping her emotional state.

"We're going to ask a few questions as quickly as we can, and then we'll get out of your hair," Dawson informed her, his tone not nearly as compassionate as Eden's, yet not unkindly.

"Of course," she nodded, reining her emotions back in. "I'm sorry, it's been a long day."

"No apologies necessary," he assured her. He suddenly reminded her of Hotch.

"Take us through your morning," Eden instructed gently.

Penelope recounted the story that she'd told and re-told what seemed like a hundred times today. She tried to include everything that she could remember, pausing at times to scan her memory for anything else she saw or thought or felt in a particular moment—she knew how important one simple detail could be, even in a case of this size.

Once she'd finished, she looked down to realize her hands were shaking. Judith Eden noticed, too—because without a second's hesitation, she reached out, gently placing her hand over Penelope's to quieten their tremors.

"It's OK." Eden reminded her, her voice dropping like a low weight of assurance. "You're safe now."

"Am I?" Penelope couldn't help but ask, taking a moment to glance at both agents. "Morgan says that the BAU is in the crosshairs right now."

"Morgan? Agent Morgan told you this?" Dawson seemed surprised.

"Yes." She gave a curt nod, realizing that perhaps it was a piece of information that she wasn't supposed to divulge. Too late now. "He—I've been calling him, with updates on JJ. He's been keeping me in the loop."

Judith Eden fought back a wickedly triumphant grin. So Derek Morgan did have a weak spot—this bubbly blonde didn't seem like his type, but opposites attract and all that jazz. It was another insight into the tight-lipped BAU agent, and she'd glean what she could from that tidbit.

"What else did Agent Morgan tell you?" Jude was sure to keep her tone neutral and her face equally so.

"Just that they've been allowed to go home tonight." The blonde glanced at Dawson again, "He thinks that it's your way of saying you believe they're innocent."

"Perhaps," was Dawson's only reply.

"So…do you know why the BAU are being considered as potential suspects?" Eden leaned in slightly, cocking her head to the side as she studied the younger woman.

A pained expression rolled across Penelope's features—she didn't want to answer the question, but she definitely knew the answer. "It's…they've all been through a lot. More than they deserve, really. And I get how that looks to the outside, in a case like this—but my team isn't like that. They're not vengeful or twisted or horrible. They're _real_. They're bruised and they've got dark pasts and they still come in to work every day to make sure that someone else doesn't end up with a story that matches theirs. They sacrifice normal lives to spend their days catching bad guys—_monsters_, worse than bad guys—and they do it because they love it, not because they're trying to get back at the Bureau. They're good people. They _are_ the good people. The only way to live with their histories is to save more people, to keep history from repeating. They would never do something like this—it's never even crossed their minds, because they're too busy _catching_ the guys who do stuff like this."

Eden and Dawson exchanged cryptic glances.

"Alright, then," Dawson sat back, resting his hands on his thighs. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Garcia."

She nodded, suddenly as nervous as she'd been when they first started, "Happy to help in any way that I can, sir. And please—I know you'll catch this guy, but you'll catch him a whole lot faster if you just trust the BAU and let them do their jobs."

"Duly noted," Dawson tilted his head in acceptance. He rose to his feet when Penelope did, but Eden stayed seated (not that Garcia blamed her—the poor woman looked absolutely drained).

"I'm gonna go," Penelope checked her phone. "My boyfr—my ride is here to pick me up. Um, but you have my number, if you need anything?"

"Yes," Dawson assured her. He thanked her one last time before she left the room.

Dawson sank back into his seat with a weary sigh. Jude shifted in her own, turning her body sideways so that she could rest the side of her face on the back of the chair. She looked as if she could fall asleep at any second, but she kept her eyes opened and focused on her chief.

"We were never gonna get anything out of her," Jude stated the obvious.

Jack hummed in agreement, "She sees the BAU as some kind of hero squad—everything they do is noble and just."

"Well, she does have a very personal bias." There was a mischievous grin in Eden's voice.

Dawson glanced over, slightly confused.

"Derek Morgan?" Eden prompted, though she was still met with uncertainty. She gave a slight huff of amusement. "For a grand investigator, you really do miss some whopping clues sometimes."

"Like the fact that you and Jonas are having a row again?" He couldn't stop himself.

Jude sat up, as if she'd been pricked by a needle. She seemed surprised.

"I may not be a profiler, but I do know how to read my team," he informed her. After a beat, he added, "And, Sura told me."

Now Judith smiled—of course, Sura had said something. The woman wasn't what one would consider a gossip-monger, but she did have an unpleasant habit of ensuring that there were few secrets kept amongst the team.

"You wanna talk about it?" As usual, Jack Dawson was quiet, calm, neutral—yet something in the set of his shoulders informed her that this wasn't really a request.

"Not particularly—but I doubt I really get that option," she admitted easily, turning her head to gaze at the wall in front of them. "It started out as a professional difference in opinion. Vichie made it personal. He apologized. After the interviews, I asked how it'd gone with Rossi—and this time, I suppose I made it personal."

"Is this something to do with the Harrison case?" Dawson asked.

Jude gave a slight shrug, as if she could admit that it was a viable explanation but she didn't really believe it. "Perhaps. Though I'm sure it's more to do with me and Jonas simply having a moment."

"Except this moment seems to be lasting longer than usual," Dawson pointed out dryly. "And your moments have always been about professional things—and yet both of you have used the word _personal_ to describe this disagreement, multiple times. Is there something else I need to know?"

Now Judith turned back to him, and the momentary flash of fear in her eyes was palpable.

"I…no." She spoke slowly, her dark eyes locked onto his light ones. "Just…know that I am still me, and I still do my job. Whatever's happening between Jonas and me doesn't affect that."

"But it does. Because I was going to send you and Jonas here to do interviews, but here I am instead."

"Your lack of faith in our ability to remain professional isn't an actual reflection of our professionalism," she crossed her arms over her chest in a protective gesture. "Yes, Vichie and I have had our disagreements—and now, just as in the past, we've always kept them to moments when no one outside the team was around. We had half a dozen briefings today, and dozens of interviews—at any point did we seem unprofessional or lose decorum?"

Dawson didn't answer, but she could tell that he'd taken her point. She continued softly, "Whatever happens between us behind closed doors has not and will not ever affect our working relationship."

_Behind closed doors_. Dawson immediately thought of the discussion he'd had with Sura earlier.

"And what does happen, behind closed doors?" He turned in his seat, allowing himself to fully face her.

"Excuse me?" Her expression was a mixture of disbelief and indignation.

"Is there something I should know about?"

"What are you saying, Jack?"

He chose his words carefully, "I'm saying that right now, there's an entire seat between us, and if I were Jonas, you'd be seated right beside me with your head on my shoulder or in my lap."

There was a beat of silence.

"Ah," Jude tilted her head back to look at the ceiling. "I see. He and I have a physical closeness, so we _must_ be sleeping together."

"That's not what I said—"

"But it's certainly what you insinuated. Jesus Christ, Jack—he's a married man. A man married to _another_ man. How could you think that we would do such a thing?" Now she was angry, her eyes flashing with hurt. "How could you think that _I_ would do such a thing?"

"Because that's where the evidence points." His voice was quiet, but it held weight—the weight of his certainty, mixed with his contrition for being pulled into this mess, his sorrow for upsetting her in the first place.

Jude took a deep breath, trying to regain her calm. "Well, the evidence is misleading, Jack. Jonas is my nearest and dearest friend, to be sure—and part of my physical affection towards him is based in the fact that I know he'll never misconstrue it for more than it is, though apparently everyone else will. Friends have fights, too, Jack. And that's all that is happening here. Two friends, having a fight. It's not the end of the world, it's just where we are at the moment."

"A fight vehement enough to make Jonas put his hands on you," Dawson added, his tone flat but edged with frustration.

She blinked at that statement. "Put his hands on me?"

He didn't back down, keeping his ice-blue eyes locked onto her face, watching every nuance of her expression, "Last night, when we got back to office—he grabbed you."

She sat up straighter, the confusion in her eyes (_there's no way you could've seen that..._) as she simply stared at him, trying to mentally unravel this small mystery. He kept his face meticulously blank, giving her nothing (Jude was generally a mild-mannered woman, but he didn't want to know what she'd do to Sura if she found out).

Another beat passed. Then Jude shifted slightly, settling back into her seat again. Her voice was calm, almost bored, "If you hadn't actually seen us fighting, would you have known that there was something wrong?"

"I don't know," he shrugged, trying to remain honest.

"Has any of this actually affected my job performance?"

"I suppose not."

"No suppositions. Yes or no."

"No."

"Good." She gave a curt nod, swiveling her body so that she was facing forward again, instead of towards him. "Then don't talk to me about it again unless it does."

"Excuse me?" Jack Dawson was by no means a dictator, but he certainly wasn't used to hearing such assertive language from his team members.

"If it doesn't affect my work, then it's none of your concern," Jude kept her gaze on the wall in front of her. "And if you mention it again, I'll put in a complaint for harassment."

"Harassment?" Jack leaned forward at the word, truly shocked. "None of this could qualify as—"

"You and I both know that doesn't matter," she shot back quickly. "It'd be on your record, whether you were cleared or not."

"You'd seriously do that to me, Jude?" It wasn't an accident, using her nickname, reminding her of just how long they'd worked together, of just how close they were.

Now she turned to look at him again, her mouth still a stern, thin line, but her big brown eyes edged with sorrow, "I will if you make me, Jack."

He got the message loud and clear. Holding up his hands in a gesture of secession, he sat back, "For the record, let me state that I'm still not happy about this and I still think that if Jonas Shostakovich is physically putting his hands on you, I have the right—the _responsibility_—to intervene."

"And for the record, I'm telling you that it's not necessary. So your responsibility ends."

Jack bit back the retort that his responsibility to his team never ended. Instead, he simply said, "Fine. I won't ask any more questions. But Jude, I swear to god—don't let me ever hear of it happening again."

"Understood, sir." She turned away, crossing her arms over her chest. He knew that she was still highly upset—Judith Eden was a private person, and he knew that the idea of everyone else discussing and dissecting her every move wasn't pleasant.

After a beat, she glanced up at the clock on the wall—still almost another hour to go before they could speak to Agent Jareau.

Dawson still had one last question, "Did you really compare Jonas to Truman during Nagasaki?"

She bowed her head, as if fighting back a grin. "Perhaps I went a little too far."

"You compared his interview to the atomic bombing of innocent civilians."

"Like I said, a _little_ too far. But only slightly."

Now he spared a wicked grin, "Honestly, Vichie probably loved the comparison. You know how that man loves his noble-tragedy-drowning-in-moral-quagmire shit. _And_ he loves American history. Really, it's a win-win for him."

He glanced over to watch her reaction, feeling a small measure of reassurance in seeing the corner of her mouth twist into a wry smirk. If they could still joke, albeit in a dark and slightly-warped way, then it was all going to pan out just fine.

She was quiet for a minute. He could tell that she was still retracing every word of their conversation—weighing her own fault in the matter, judging herself for being too harsh or too emotional (he knew her, he knew how her mind worked, and he simply let her be—she'd come back around when she was ready). Yes, he might not be as close of a friend as her darling Vichie, but Dawson and Eden had had their share of disagreements over the years (and a more-than-fair-share of reprimands, on Eden's part). He still knew how to recover from such a moment, and how to let her find her way back as well.

Apparently, she'd internally decided that she'd been a bit too rough in her self-defense, because she gave a heavy sigh as she looked up at the ceiling. "You are a sweet man and I adore you, Jack Dawson."

"I know."

"Now's the part where you reciprocate those feelings."

"But if I do it now, after your prompting, doesn't it technically negate said feelings?"

"Perhaps. But I'll still appreciate the attempt. It's the thought that counts, all that jazz."

"Fine. You are a wonderful woman and I adore you, Judith Eden."

"Good. There we are."

"Why can't you make up this easily with Vichie?"

"Because we've got more items on the table that what you and I just threw out there. Why can't _you_ remember that I asked you not to ask any more questions?"

"Oh, right." He didn't really sound chagrined. Allowing the slightest hint of teasing into his tone, he added, "You wouldn't really charge me with harassment, would you?"

"In a heartbeat."

He chuckled and she took a moment to give him a stare of mostly-false severity (_I mean it, buddy_). He just shook his head in acquiescence.

Sura had a point—there was something definitely going on between Jonas and Jude, even if it was more platonic than she thought. But Jude had a point, too—as long as it didn't affect their working relationship, it really wasn't of any concern to him.

He pulled out his phone. With nothing else left to do, he might as well play a game or two. He didn't even look up as he casually asked, "Another round of Trivia Crack?"

She shifted, pulling her phone out of her back pocket. "Prepare to be trounced, good sir."

"Not a chance."

"Really? Because last I checked, I was already soundly defeating you."

"Only on geography."

"And history. And most of the science—"

"Just play, will ya?"

He didn't have to look up to know that she was smiling smugly. For now, they were as close to fully reconciled as they could be.

* * *

_**A Few Hours Earlier.**_

_**Saint Michael's Church. Washington, D.C.**_

Linnea Charles could hear the humming cadence of multiple voices chanting in unison as she opened the heavy metal door of the basement entrance. She glanced at her watch again—true to Karl's prediction, she'd arrived just as the support group meeting was coming to a close.

She couldn't make out the words, but memory told her that they were reciting the serenity prayer.

Oy. She could do without ever hearing that fortune-cookie soundbite for the rest of her life, thank you very much.

The fact that they were praying was actually a bonus for Linnea—it gave her a chance to simply stand in the doorway, scouting the faces for one in particular.

And there she was. Her hair wasn't blonde anymore—it was a fire-engine red, too bright and pure to be natural—but her face was still the same, and her wardrobe hadn't changed a bit, either. She was wearing a button-down shirt with skinny jeans, an effortlessly chic distressed leather vest with fringe which perfectly matched her brown leather ankle boots. She had a few too many tattoos and bangles to look professional or entirely clean-cut, but she still carried herself well and always had a smile to spare.

She remembered Linnea—she smiled in recognition once the prayer ended and everyone began to disperse. She scooped up her leather jacket, slipping her phone out to check for any messages before returning it to her back pocket.

"It's been a while," she approached, tucking her hands into her pockets. Face genuinely filling with concern, she asked, "How's it going?"

"It's going," Linnea answered casually—in the years since her sister's murder, she'd learned that was sometimes the most honest and easiest answer to give. "Look, Elaine, I'm sorry—I know how this is going to sound…but your mother. She was with the FBI, right?"

Elaine's eyes immediately clouded with hesitation. "Yeah."

"She…she worked at Quantico, right?"

"What's this about, Linnea?" Elaine's friendly demeanor disappeared completely. "You working some new story, is that it? Because I've had dozens—and I mean _dozens_—of reporters sniffing around with questions, and I'm not—"

"No, it's not—well, it is related to my job, but not in the way that you think." Inwardly, Linnea cursed her past self for ever revealing the fact that she was a journalist to the support group—no one had really looked at her the same way after that. Of course, Elaine actually had good reason to.

Linnea looked around, realizing that they were beginning to attract attention from the others. "Look…can we go grab a cup of coffee or something? I'm not trying to turn you into a story, I swear. I just—something landed in my lap today, and I need help."

"And so you came to me?" Elaine was incredulous. "Look, my mom didn't exactly share her work files with me, so—"

"Elaine. Please." Linnea's face was somber, yet her eyes were filled with desperation.

The younger woman stared at her for a full beat before acquiescing. "Fine."

As they headed for the door, she added, "And if I'm going to help, you might as well call me by my real name—well, Elaine _is_ my real name, technically, but it's my middle name. I had to revert to it at these meetings, just to keep the reporters and weirdos off my trail."

"Oh." Linnea had never even thought about it—apparently Elaine's mother's death was a bigger deal than she'd realized. "So…what is your name then?"

"Jordan. Jordan Strauss."

* * *

"_We don't meet people by accident. They are meant to cross our path for a reason."_

_~Unknown._

* * *

_***Author's Note: Jordan Strauss (or at least my version of Erin Strauss' eldest child) first appeared in my short story Irises, and was later expanded upon in Pay the Piper. As usual, I like keeping most of my stories "linked", so all the things that happened to Jordan in Pay the Piper, in regards to her relationships with Carrington, Reid, and Rossi, still hold true in this story.***_


	30. Camel's Back

**Camel's Back**

"_It's not always the final straw that does the damage. It's often the one you've carried for too long that is suddenly impossible to ignore."_

_~Unknown._

* * *

**_*Author's Note: Merci beaucoup for all the awesome reviews! Also, Penelope's upcoming reference to "Team Penemily" is a throwback to a scene from 'Out of Africa', where she decides to name her partnership with Emily on a case...and you need to know that (also referenced in Africa) they now have matching bedazzled "Team Penemily" shirts, made by Garcia, of course. Why do you need to know this? You just do. Because you know you've been Team Penemily your whole life, you just didn't know it yet. ;)*_**

* * *

_**Java the Hutt Coffeehouse. Washington, D.C.**_

Jordan Strauss zipped up her leather jacket as she settled into the iron-wrought chair—the Hutt was hopping, as usual, which meant she and Linnea had to sit outside on the patio for privacy (no one else was foolhardy enough to brave the biting February air at this hour of the night).

"Their prices are outrageous," Linnea commented, setting down two coffee cups as she took the seat across from Jordan's.

"Yeah, but…" Jordan glanced over her shoulder, momentarily lost in thought. With a small smile, she confessed. "It used to be a different coffee shop—the owners sold out last year. The old place was nicer."

"So…what? You come here for the memories?" Linnea was lost.

"I guess so." There was a beat. Jordan took a deep breath, "My mother was a recovering alcoholic—she often went to the AA meetings at Saint Michael's—this was the closest coffee shop, so she'd come here afterwards. So I go to the support group at Saint Michael's, and I always come here afterwards. I don't know if it actually makes me feel closer to her, but I…I can't not do it, you know?"

"Yeah, I do," Linnea admitted, pushing back the lump in her throat. In the two and a half years since her sister's death, she'd fallen into odd habits, with no other explanation than she just had to do certain things in order to survive her grief—a grief compacted by the loss of her mother less than a year later. However, her mother's death had been expected, a finally-restful end to a long and draining battle with cancer, whereas her sister—nothing could have prepared her for the violent and senseless act that ripped her baby sister away from her.

Linnea shifted in her seat, taking a moment to trace her fingertip around the plastic lid of her disposable coffee cup. "Look…I know this is asking a lot—asking you to drag up a lot of painful stuff—"

Jordan shook her head, holding up a hand to stop her, "You can't 'drag up' something that's always on your mind. It's OK."

"I remember from some of our meetings that your mom was murdered by an…um…."

"UNSUB," Jordan supplied. "Well, except he's not anymore—that's what they call the suspect, before they learn his identity. Stands for 'Unknown Subject'. Now he has a name and an identity and he's dead, thankfully. But I don't like giving out his name because the whole story is a bit…salacious, I guess. I like to keep the details to a minimum, when it comes to outsiders."

"I get it." Linnea gave a quick nod, holding up her hand, "And I'm not—I don't need to know his name. But you gave the impression that your mother worked with the BAU—"

"You don't know what an UNSUB is, but you know about the Behavioral Analysis Unit?" Jordan quirked one perfectly-manicured brow in incredulity. After a beat of studied silence, she answered the older woman's unspoken question, "Yeah, she did, actually—um, she was a section chief, so she oversaw several units, divisions at Quantico. The BAU was one of those units."

Jordan gave a soft smile at a sudden flash of memory—her mother hadn't spoken about her work very often, at least not in front of her children, but Jordan could still recall a few family dinners in which Erin Strauss' cellphone had sat at the edge of the table, because the team was in the field on a particularly intense case. She would sometimes complain to Jordan's father that her 'problem children' were at it again—that was code for the BAU going off-book and doing something slightly illegal, which meant Erin Strauss had to cover their asses with the top brass.

"Oh. So…did you know any of your mother's coworkers in the BAU?"

Now Jordan felt a prickle of uncertainty—she knew the answer to the question, naturally, but she wasn't sure if she should share it.

"Like I said, my mom didn't exactly share every detail of her work life with me—but you can throw a name out there and I'll tell you if it sounds familiar."

"David Rossi."

* * *

_**Later.**_

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Is my theory about David Rossi _that_ far out there?"

Jessalyn Keller took a beat to simply turn her upper body towards Jonas Shostakovich, her big green eyes widening as she considered him, considered his question. Finally, she spoke.

"I don't know." She didn't move except to blink. "Lay it all out for me."

Jonas gave a small nod—if anyone could be an impartial and logical judge, it was Jessalyn. Even now, she was a study in neutrality, with her open body language and meticulously blank expression, head tilted to the side to imply that she was deeply listening, while her nonchalant posture informed him that she wasn't _too_ invested in his story, either. She was the youngest person on the team by an easy ten years, but she possessed what Lise would call an old soul.

"Let's look at it as chronologically as possible," Jonas began, taking a moment to re-arrange his thoughts to fit his own request. "David Rossi starts the BAU, but never really heads it—back then, the agents worked freelance, no team type stuff. He botches Ruby Ridge, has a few other failures on his scorecards, and he finally leaves."

"So far, all of this is supported by fact," Sura Roza spoke up from across the room. She was still at the desk, leaned forward on her elbows, chin cupped in one hand as she, too, gave Jonas' timeline her full attention.

"Right." Jonas continued, "Then he goes off to become a well-received true crime novelist. He garners a bit of a following, gets the recognition that he never truly got from actually working for the FBI."

"Then why does he come back?" Keller's only reaction was a single brow, quirked downward in slight confusion. "He had money, he has fame—why come back?"

"If you turned in your badge tomorrow, what would be the one thing that could bring you back?" Jonas turned the question around and sent it back to her.

Jessalyn's mind immediately went into agent-mode. "A case. Unfinished business."

"Yeah," Sura was nodding slowly now. "Yeah, I could see that. So he comes back for a case."

"But he stays," Jess frowned slightly.

"He stays," Jonas repeated with a nod. "He stays, and he keeps writing books based on the cases he solves while back at the BAU—and somewhere along the line, he starts having an affair with his section chief—"

"Here's where we enter the gray waters," Sura warned. Jess bit back a frustrated sigh (it irritated her when people mixed metaphors).

"Rossi all but confessed to it," Jonas informed them.

"Which means he didn't confess," Jess stipulated.

"Very few people confess to breaking Bureau policy—even when confronted," Jonas pointed out, his tone quick, almost terse.

Jess pressed her lips into a thin line of disapproval, but she allowed it. "Fine. So let's say he does have a fling with Strauss—"

"More than a fling. He cared for her."

"Whatever," Jess waved away the correction, for the first time showing a lively interest in the storyline.

"It matters," he assured her. "It speaks to motivation."

"Ok, Mr. Former Prosecutor," Roza's dry tone interrupted. He didn't have to look over to know that she was smiling.

"The Replicator happens—the BAU is specifically called off the case. And then John Curtis ends up murdering Erin Strauss—"

"So the Director is responsible for her death," Jess picked up the rest. "And by extension, so is the entire Bureau."

Then the blonde shook her head, "But he waits almost two years before doing something about it?"

Jonas gave a slight shrug, "John Curtis waited over a decade before coming after Strauss."

"But his final straw was when Strauss passed him over for the BAU opening," Jess held up a finger as if to stop him. "Curtis began killing within weeks of Alex Blake's arrival to the unit."

"Yeah, but…grief's a weird thing," Sura Roza piped up again. She was still leaning forward on her elbows, but her hands were rubbing together in slow, lazy circles, as if they were physically helping her mind turn over thoughts and ideas. "I mean, so Rossi deals with the loss—tries to deal with it, through counseling or group therapy or something—"

"Doesn't seem the type," Keller interjected. "But for the sake of your theory, we'll assume—"

"Either way, he tries to deal. And then realizes that he can't—he can't get closure because there _isn't_ any. Curtis might be dead, but the real people responsible for Erin's death are still here, still believing that they weren't responsible." Roza opened her hands, "And so he decides to take a page from Curtis' playbook. It takes a few months to get things in order, to learn how to make this stuff—"

"Or to find someone else who knows how to make it for him, whom he can trust," Jonas resumed control of the train of thought. "I mean, I just don't see something of this scale being pulled off without _some_ kind of help."

"OK," Jessalyn held up her hands. "So far, a bit reaching, but nothing too impossible. But then why send the bomb to his own unit? Macaraeg mentioned that there wasn't a detonator—no way to tell when this thing would blow. I get that the BAU tagged this UNSUB as having a god complex, but isn't that just…_too_ risky?"

Now it was Jonas' turn to hold up a cautionary finger. "_If_ you were planning to be in the building when the bomb went off."

"Wait, what?" The confusion was evident on Roza's face.

"David Rossi was meeting with his editor this morning—he didn't arrive until _after_ the blast had happened. If the statement he made to Jude holds true, he arrived almost a half-hour after the bomb went off. And according to the mail clerks, the entire building's mail would easily be delivered within that time frame. So he knew that regardless of where it went off, it would have already exploded by the time he made it to Quantico. Or at least, given the volatile nature of TATP, it should have already exploded by the time he made it."

Jessalyn Keller sat back, her face slowly slipping into a dazed expression as her mind rerouted all the rabbit trails and suppositions that Jonas had just laid out.

"I almost hate to say this, for Jude's sake—but your theory is actually pretty plausible."

* * *

_**Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

Sam had been nearly inconsolable when he'd first seen her—because despite Penelope's best attempts to clean up, she still looked like she'd been through an absolute wringer. Once they'd gotten back to her place, she'd told him the whole story, under the strict command that afterwards, they weren't going to discuss it again, at least not for tonight, because there's only so many times a girl can relive a trauma in a single day. He was at least trying to adhere to the rule, though sometimes he got too overwhelmed.

She really, really tried not to think about how differently Derek Morgan would handle this. Tried, but failed. However, she also knew better than to hold it against Sam—after all, how could he be expected to know and understand her the same way that Morgan did? Derek had known her longer, and in some ways deeper, than Sam. That wasn't anyone's fault.

They'd finally relaxed into simply watching television on the couch, and Penelope had begun to feel a modicum of relief—at least the TV filled the silence and removed the unbearable awkwardness of all the unspoken and unanswered questions.

Penelope's replacement cell buzzed, and she glanced at the caller ID.

_Unavailable_.

Normal people would assume that it was a telemarketer. However, in Penelope's line of work, she'd learned to answer those calls especially.

"Hello?"

"Penelope?" The tone was filled with uncertainty, but Penelope didn't have a moment's doubt as to the voice's owner.

"Emily!"

She heard her friend's sigh of relief, "I, uh—I got your number from Hotch. I wanted to see how you were."

_How you were_. Not _if you were OK_—because they both knew that she wasn't, not really. Penelope loved her friend all the more for her subtle honesty.

"Well, physically, I've had better days—and emotionally, too, I guess. But I'm back home now—"

"Oh, gosh, did I wake you?"

"No. Sam's here."

"Oh?" There was a beat. Then Emily's tone changed, "Oh. Should I call back later?"

The insinuation was not lost on the blonde, who had to laugh at her friend's ridiculousness. "Do you really think I'd answer if that was happening right now?"

"You'd better." Now Emily's voice was dancing with mirth. "I mean, he's your boyfriend and all, but you and I are Team Penemily. Nothing comes between that."

"Not even an ocean," Penelope offered the second half of their now-familiar catchphrase. Then she sat up straighter, "Oh, you'll never guess who I met today!"

"Given the day you've had, no, I seriously couldn't even begin to guess."

"La-La-Lavender."

"What?" Emily was laughing in surprised delight now. "You lucky duck!"

"He's a nurse. At the hospital."

"No way."

"Yep. He was actually my nurse in the ER. I gave him my shoes."

"Which ones?"

"The orange pumps."

"Ah, damn. I liked those."

"You wouldn't have worn them in a million years."

"No…but I would have put them on my shelf, with all my other Penelope Garcia collectible items."

"What?"

"I have a shrine dedicated to you in my closet. No need to make it weird."

"I just feel like a bad friend for not having a shrine for you in my closet," Penelope admitted. Sam sat up slightly, glancing at her in a mixture of amusement and confusion. This wasn't the first time he'd overheard one side of a phone conversation between Penelope and Emily; he wasn't really surprised at how weird the topics got (and honestly, that wasn't the weirdest thing he'd ever heard, with these two).

"Oh you do. It's just way in the back—I built it myself, last time I was in there. Left a lock of my hair and everything." As usual, Emily Prentiss' voice was a dry deadpan, which only made her friend laugh even more.

"I love you," Penelope declared through her giggles.

"Yeah—about that. I might have also used some voodoo to hex you into always staying my friend."

"That explains the lock of hair."

"Girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."

"Well, voodoo or not, I'm really glad to hear your voice."

"Same here," Emily became quieter, her voice filling with a compassionate warmth. "You're really alright, though?"

"Given the circumstances?"

"Of course."

"As well as can be expected."

"That seems particularly cryptic."

"What time is it in London?" Penelope suddenly looked around the room for a clock. "Why are you even awake right now?"

"Oh, I see. Avoiding my last statement because certain people are in the room and you aren't at liberty to discuss the topic?"

"Yep."

"Ah. Girl code has been received and understood."

Penelope had to grin—she and Emily reverted to speaking in what she'd dubbed "girl code" from time to time, their own version of communication that appeared when one was not able to say certain things outright to the other, due to another person or persons in the room at the time. It was a fun little game that also reminded them both of just how alike their minds were.

"Alright then—it's late in London, but I'm not sleeping anyways. Evil never sleeps, so neither does Interpol, or something like that."

"That's poetic. You should put it on a t-shirt."

"_You_ should put it on a t-shirt, Miss Bedazzler."

"Ooh, I should. Evil never sleeps, and neither does Team Penemily."

"I definitely like your version better."

"I know." Penelope didn't try to hide the grin of smug amusement that slipped across her face.

"How's the rest of the gang?" Emily switched gears again, becoming serious once more.

"They're OK, I think. I haven't seen half of them at all today—they've been stuck at Quantico—"

"Yeah, I know—I spoke to Hotch a few times today, just trying to keep some kind of eye on things," Emily added the last part a bit quickly. "I just feel so helpless, being so far away and so…helpless. I mean, there's nothing I can do, even if I wanted to."

"I think it's all beyond our control," Penelope admitted, though her tone was almost reassuring. "Just knowing that you're thinking about us is a helpful thing, in and of itself."

"You think so?" Emily's tone was lined with doubt.

"Of course. Sometimes that's all you need—knowing that when you're going through darkness, there's someone on the other side, cheering you on."

"Maybe," Emily didn't sound convinced. Then she became more self-assured, "The point of this phone call wasn't for you to comfort me—I'm supposed to be taking care of you. Is there anything I can do from across the pond?"

"Um…you got anymore of that tea you sent last month?"

"Consider it in an overnight box as soon as this conversation is finished."

"You really are a superhero."

"Try my best, ma'am," Emily pushed her voice into a low Southern drawl.

"Next time you come to visit, we'll have to go see La-La-Lavender—I'm pretty sure I got us free passes to the afterparty."

"Yes!" Penelope knew that Emily was pumping her fist in victory. "Only you would survive a bombing and somehow walk away with party passes to a drag show."

"Well, it was more of a hobble than a walk—"

"You know what I mean," Emily's tone was laced with warm amusement. But again, she sobered up, "I'm just glad you're OK. What's…how was JJ, last time you saw her?"

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"Agent Jareau," a woman's voice, unfamiliar but not unkindly, was hedging into her thoughts. The thick British accent lacing through the words made them seem even harder to focus on, "Agent Jareau, I'm terribly sorry to disturb you—can you hear us?"

"Yuh…yesss," JJ tried to pull herself from her groggy state, but she felt like a mammoth in a tar pit—her body kept slipping back down, eyelids drooping closed again as her other muscles mutinied against her brain's commands, making her speech slurred and halting. "I'm juh-just…."

"It's alright, Agent Jareau." A warm weight settled on her shoulder—presumably part of the corporeal form attached to the British lady's voice. "Take your time. Wake up slowly. We're here; we'll wait as long as you need."

JJ could merely hum her thanks, trying to shift her blurry brain's focus to the rest of her body (why was it taking so long to wake up, and why did every time seem to take more effort than the last?). She swallowed, she tried to open her eyes and then decided to wait, flexing the muscles in her feet with some amount of reassurance.

After an eternity, she opened her eyes—two strangers stood next to her bed, but she instantly recognized that they were federal agents.

The woman spoke again, "I'm SSA Judith Eden, and this is SSA Jack Dawson. Do you think you're able to answer a few questions for us?"

JJ nodded, fumbling for the remote control so that she could move the bed into a sitting position. Then she motioned towards the water pitcher, "Would you—could you please?"

Her voice was raspy, tired, stretched to its limit. SSA Dawson helpfully supplied her with a glass of water, and the two newcomers waited until JJ had finished the entire thing before speaking again.

"Agent Jareau, I know this isn't exactly the best time," Dawson spoke, his face filled with concern. "But time is of the essence and—"

"I understand," JJ admitted with a heavy breath. "I'm afraid I won't have much to help your case—I was in the elevator the whole time."

"Have you noticed anyone acting strangely lately?" Eden asked, her voice still hesitant, gentle, almost lulling.

JJ considered the question, "No, I guess not. But I don't spend much time outside the BAU suite these days."

"How about anyone on your team, then?" Dawson's face was somber, seriously neutral, and even in her muddled state, JJ knew that wasn't a good sign.

"Muh-my team? Why are you asking about my team?"

"We're just covering all our bases," Eden assured her, lightly patting her shoulder again. "It's completely routine."

"If it's completely routine, why are you visiting me?" It took longer than it should have to formulate that question, to push it off her lips like a heavy row boat being shoved off the muddy shore.

Eden and Dawson exchanged glances. Dawson spoke again, "You are aware of the personal losses that some of your team mates have suffered?"

"Wait…what?"

"Losses that perhaps they might blame on the Bureau, on the job?"

JJ looked to SSA Eden, who was the closest thing to an ally that she had in the room—the older woman's mouth was a thin line, as if she feared the questions might break JJ in two.

This was serious. This was…bad.

"What are you saying?" JJ could feel her pulse hammering through her neck, drying out her mouth even more.

Eden shifted forward slightly, her voice low and calm, "We believe that whoever orchestrated today's attack was acting on a personal basis—some kind of revenge against the FBI itself."

"And you have to admit, several of your colleagues have legitimate reasons to be upset," Dawson intoned quietly, his words staying slow and measured. "Legitimate reasons with direct linkage to their work with the Bureau."

Visions of the past whirled through her brain like a demented carnival ride, tossing her around in a hapless flurry of flashbacks and emotions. Hotch…Rossi…Spence….who could ever think those sweet boys would ever do something like this?

"N-no. I mean, yes, I know that when you look at it…out of…out of context," her head was swimming, adrenaline fighting the pain meds for clarity, sloshing through the numbness of her muscles to find the right words, the right answers. She tried to squeeze her eyes shut, to reset her brain, but the simple action sent sparks of white-hot pain through her head. "But Haley, Erin, Maeve—those things weren't because of the FBI, and no one ever thought that they were."

She was getting worked up—she could feel her heart hammering, could hear the vital signs monitor speeding up its rhythmic beeping, could see the looks of concern on the other two agents.

"It's alright. Take a deep breath," Eden was rubbing her arm and shoulder comfortingly. "Calm down. It's alright, darling, just calm down."

It was hard not to be comforted by the accent, the soothing tone—JJ willed herself to breathe (though not deeply, because her ribs still hurt like hell), but her muscles were still refusing to cooperate with her brain's commands. The beeping sound was getting faster, more ominous, like it was a living entity, rising up to overtake her body, stirring up an irrational well of panic in her already-constricted chest.

She felt herself sinking again, like a pebble in a fish bowl, bubble, bubble, bubble, drifting further away—then she shot back into herself again, blinding light and rolling room.

More voices. Lots of voices.

A new voice, "Jennifer, Jennifer—calm down—get Doc Mellinger back in here, now!"

Jack Dawson was pushed out of the way by the team of nurses who burst into the room—he looked over at Judith, who was still staring in horror as Agent Jareau convulsed in her hospital bed.

He reached out, wrapping his arm around Jude as he pulled her away from the scene. Whatever happened next, she didn't need to see it.

* * *

"_Whatever happens, they say afterwards, it must have been fate. People are always a little confused about this, as they are in the case of miracles. When someone is saved from certain death by a strange concatenation of circumstances, they say that's a miracle. But of course if someone is __killed __by a freak chain of events—the oil spilled just there, the safety fence broken just there—that must also be a miracle. Just because it's not nice doesn't mean it's not miraculous."__  
__~Terry Pratchett._


	31. Fear and Love and Places In Between

**Fear and Love and Places In Between**

"_Suddenly the black night showed its teeth in a flash of lightning._

_The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and the woman trembled in fear."_

_~Rabindranath Tagore._

* * *

_***Author's Note: It's been a while. I apologize—traveling, work, life in general, etc, etc. I've gotten a few messages and reviews from people fearing that I'd forgotten about this story—rest assured, that is the farthest thing from the truth! These next few chapters have contained items/references that required a little more time to double-check and research, though that's not entirely why it's taken so long. **_

_**Also: in this chapter, David Rossi mentions Christopher Strauss—most of the time, I keep events from all of my stories "linked" in some way. This story is no different—elements of Hotch and Prentiss' relationship from Out of Africa, and Rossi and Strauss' relationship from Pay the Piper, as well as original characters from both stories, can be found throughout. Before reading this chapter, know this: I'm adhering to my theory put forth in Pay the Piper—that Erin's son is David Rossi's as well (which was a damn good theory until the showrunners decided to cast a blond to play Strauss' son in The Replicator, even though in previous seasons, we'd seen a dark-eyed, dark-haired boy). To get the full story on that one, go back to Pay the Piper.**_

_**And lastly, thanks to everyone for all the reviews, adds, messages, etc. If I haven't responded, please know that I'll be handling replies tonight and tomorrow, so thanks in advance for your continued patience as I play catch-up!***_

* * *

_**The LaMontagne House. Washington, D.C.**_

The phone jangled Will from sleep like a fire alarm, shattering his brain and rattling the confused bits together like marbles in a ten-gallon bucket. He squinted, trying to piece together some semblance of coherence before awkwardly fumbling for the receiver—Henry was nestled into his side, laying on his now-dead left arm, which meant Will had to turn his right arm at an unnatural angle to pick up the phone without waking his son.

"Hullo?" He tried to hide the sleepiness in his voice, and failed miserably. He glanced at the clock—no wonder, he'd been asleep for less than an hour, just long enough to get disoriented and increase his fatigue.

"Mr. LaMontagne?" A woman's voice. An official voice.

The voice of someone calling with bad news.

"What's wrong with JJ?" He tried to sit up, quickly sinking back as he remembered (and felt) his son asleep on his arm. He forced himself to keep calm, to keep his voice low so that it wouldn't wake Henry—or so that if it did, he wouldn't hear the fear drumming through every part of his daddy's body like a current of pure electricity.

"She's had a seizure. She's in surgery now—Doctor Mellinger ran some tests and determined that while the drugs had reduced the swelling in her skull, there appears to be further internal bleeding, which has been negatively affecting her motor skills—"

"I'm on my way—"

"Sir, it's—" The woman halted, her voice lined with compassion. "She's going to be in there for a while. It's brain surgery—it will easily be twice as long as her first procedure."

"And Dr. Mellinger can handle an eight-hour stint right now?" Will wasn't one who doubted doctors or their abilities, but he knew Mellinger had already had a pretty long day, given his wife's condition.

"Yes, sir. She's been taking naps in the on-call unit since Miss Jareau's first surgery—she's had at least five hours of uninterrupted sleep. And she's accompanied by a fresh surgical team."

Despite the absolute certainty in the woman's tone, William LaMontagne didn't think that sounded like much of a reassurance.

"Mr. LaMontagne," her voice was careful, just the right amount of gentle-but-firm. "Your wife isn't going to be out of surgery, much less able to see you, for many more hours. I know I'm asking you to do the impossible, but the best thing for you to do is to get some rest."

Will gave a small, helpless nod, sinking further into the bed (_their_ bed, would it ever be theirs again—would he ever roll over to see that adorably unkempt mound of blonde hair peeking from underneath the comforter again?).

"I'll try. And…thank you."

"If you'd like, I can call with continued updates."

"Is that something you usually do for patients' families?"

Now he felt that she was smiling, "Not generally. But apparently your wife's friend is dating a colleague of Dr. Mellinger's—and she's managed to get the whole crew to promise above and beyond for you guys."

He should know the answer to that riddle, but his tired brain couldn't put it together right now. "I would like that very much, thank you. And please express my gratitude to the rest of the crew, as you call 'em."

"Will do, Mr. LaMontagne."

Gingerly returning the phone back to its cradle, Will gave a heavy sigh, turning inward slightly to wrap himself around his son, his beautiful brave boy who reminded him so much of his beautiful brave wife, the physical catalyst for this crazy, hectic, sometimes-scary life they'd built together.

_Dear God, please don't let me have to look into this little boy's face and tell him the worst news in the world. Please, please, please…._

Will's whole body was skittering with fear and unvoiced sobs as he gently rocked his son back and forth, each shift of his body punctuating his internal mantra—_please, please, please, please…._

It was the only word he knew, now. It was his only weapon against dark and terrible things, the entirety of his worst fears and his greatest hopes.

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

David Rossi was slipping his coat onto his shoulders when he saw Adelaide Macaraeg's fastly-becoming-familiar form posted just outside the main entrance. Both hands were at her head—one holding a cellphone to her ear, the other apparently blocking the other ear from the steadily-increasing wind.

He'd planned on waiting for the rest of the BAU to head out as well—walking to their cars together might not seem like an important thing, but in times like this, he'd learned that encouraging the pack mentality helped morale.

There was absolutely no reason why he couldn't wait outside for them—and if Mac happened to be outside also, what did that matter? Mere coincidence.

He thought of Derek Morgan's smug expression from earlier and briefly wondered if it was worth the ribbing he'd surely get from his teammate.

Then Mac turned halfway, suddenly catching him out of the corner of her eye and turning to fully face him, giving a small wave and a bright smile that lit up the foyer like a Christmas tree. He waved back, before returning to the buttons of his coat.

Erin used to have that odd quality, too—her smile was sharp, but so genuine and joyful that it completely changed her features, in the most charmingly entrancing of ways.

He tried not to think about that. He tried not to think about Derek Morgan.

Mac had shifted to the side again, putting all of her weight into her right hip as her left hand slipped into the back pocket of her jeans, keeping her upper body open and turned slightly towards him—_contrapposto_, his inner art history nerd supplied, common and classical and the first attempt at using body language to depict psychological disposition in Western art.

Sweet Jesus in short-pants. If Derek Morgan could hear his inner monologue now—comparing the forensic analyst to classical sculptures, that'd earn him a definite jibe and most likely months of teasing.

Her amber eyes flicked upwards, over at him again, a brief flash that told too much and not enough.

Derek Morgan be damned.

David no longer had the excuse of fiddling with his jacket, so he headed out the door.

Mac was still on the phone, though she spared a soft smile of greeting, "Yeah, baby, I'm gonna try. Look, if nothing else, I'll just call in sick and fly out to Madison. My team can handle it on their own for a day….well, honey, I don't know, I haven't checked flights yet. I'm wrapping up for the night, so I'll try to get it all sorted as soon as I get back to the hotel. If push comes to shove, I'll rent a damn car and drive all the way up there….I am well aware of how far it is. I have an excellent sense of distance, may I remind you."

She was using a playfully snarking tone, and he could tell that her daughter was enjoying the banter as much as she was—their relationship was obviously close.

"Yes, but you're my daughter," Mac became a bit more serious, her brow furrowing in slight disagreement with whatever had been suggested. "You're my only daughter and I won't miss this for anything—God forgive me, but not even for a domestic terrorism case. This is not even up for discussion, Emma. I'll be there for your graduation—I just have to figure out the specifics."

Another pause. The warm smile returned to her face, "Alright. I love you, honey. Tell Aunt Joan I said hi."

She slipped the cellphone into her jacket pocket with a slightly apologetic look. "Kids. They try to be so noble and it only breaks your heart even more."

He gave a small hum of understanding, his brain once more flashing to Aaron Hotchner and his young son. The similarities were heartbreaking.

"You got kids?" She asked, half conversational, half curious.

"Yup," he gave a small smile. Even before learning of Joy's existence, he'd always found this a tough question to answer—mainly because he never knew how to include James into that setup. Sure, he'd been a father, in a basic, biological sense, but never a parent—James had died during birth and Joy hadn't shown up until she was fully grown. It wasn't quite the same in his book, and he always felt like he was somehow cheating, claiming something that wasn't his by right.

And then of course, there was Christopher—his son with Erin, another son hidden from him for years, a son he could never claim. Erin had finally confessed, just months before her death, and she'd even offered to tell Christopher and her ex-husband, who'd always assumed himself to be the father (after all, Paul Strauss had never known about the affairs between Erin and Dave over the years, so why would he even think that Christopher wasn't his?). As much as David had wanted to claim him, he'd chosen the path of true love—selflessly, he'd given up any chance of being able to publicly recognize their connection, just so that Christopher could remain in his own blissfully unaware world. David had feared the truth would only hurt his son, push him away from Erin (who'd already considered herself a maternal failure, mainly due to her job and its resulting decades-long battle with alcoholism), and away from David as well. And then what would the point be? So he'd shouldered that secret, which became even heavier after Erin's death. During the months between her confession and her death, Erin had found ways to let them have time together, ways wouldn't seem suspicious to Christopher or anyone else who noticed. Now that she was gone, it was harder to find an excuse to spend time with his unknowing son, but David had accepted it because he felt it was the best thing for Christopher—and he'd rather suffer the loss than wreck his son's world.

Rather than allowing the conversation to drift into unsafe waters, he quickly steered the focus back to Mac, "So I hear you might be sick soon."

She gave a wry grin in response. "Don't worry. There'll be a miraculous recovery to follow."

"It's still a pretty bold play," he continued in an easy tone.

"She's my daughter," Mac returned simply, as if that was the only necessary explanation. "She's gotten me through a lot of things in life—I've leaned on her probably more than a mother should depend on her child, if truth be told. She's worked hard for this, and I'm gonna be there to support her when she walks across that stage and gets that degree—because that would mean the world to her, and if any girl deserved the whole world, it's her."

There was a beat of silence as Mac looked out at the parking lot. With a slight huff, she added, "That's the downside to being a single parent—you think you have to give them the love and attention of two parents, give 'em your all twice over. You know, to make up for it. To make them feel less…unbalanced, or whatever you're afraid they'll spend their life feeling because of your own stupid mistakes."

"Emma's dad isn't in the picture?" David was slightly surprised. By all accounts and actions, Mac was single, but for some reason, he'd imagined her simply as a divorcée, with an ex-husband that still held some stake in her daughter's life.

Mac pressed her thin lips together so tightly that they practically disappeared. Then, she admitted, "He doesn't even know she exists."

It hit too close to home. David Rossi couldn't stop the involuntary reaction—his muscles slumping forward, as if she'd punched him smack in the chest, the sudden slackness in his fingers. He shocked himself with how viscerally he'd responded.

To make matters worse, Mac noticed, too.

"Y'Okay?" She cocked her head to the side, her eyebrows quirking downward in concern.

"Yeah, I just…." He couldn't find a good excuse—so he chose brutal honesty. "My daughter—I didn't know about her until a couple of months ago. She's in her thirties now, got a kid of her own. An entire chunk of my life, robbed from me because my ex-wife didn't think I needed to know."

Even now, he couldn't include Christopher in that statement—though that story ran eerily similar to his daughter's. Which begged the question: what was wrong with _him_? What was so inherently undesirable within him, what pushed the women who bore his children to hide them from his knowledge? What in his nature or his actions screamed a complete inability to be a good father, a decent, supportive parent? What kind of damage had he wreaked upon his former wives and lovers, that made them want to hide every connection between them? What sin was he being punished for?

"Oh, God," Mac's face was ghastly pale. "I…I don't even know how to respond to that, Rossi. I didn't mean to bring up what's obviously a painful—"

"You didn't; I'm the one who asked you, remember?" He didn't want her to feel guilty (at least not for that). However, he couldn't stop himself from quietly adding, "I just…I don't understand how someone could do that to another person."

"Because he didn't want to know," Mac answered back, her voice just as quiet, but filled with certainty.

"That's what my ex-wife thought, too," David informed her. Trying to pull himself from the emotional quagmire, he shrugged, attempting to infuse a little nonchalance into his body language, though he was certain that his hurting heart was still screaming loud enough for everyone in the world to hear. "And maybe I would've had that reaction, who knows? The point is that she never actually told me, so we'll never know—and I lost half a lifetime's worth of chances and memories with my daughter and my grandson. Maybe I would've wasted them, but either way, I'll never get 'em back. And the not knowing hurts worse than regret could ever sting."

Mac was very still and very quiet for a long, hard moment. When she finally did speak, her amber eyes were focused on the darkness surrounding the Academy, as if she were speaking to someone other than David Rossi. "I am very sorry for you, David, and for all that you've felt you lost or had stolen from you. I can't speak for your wife, but I don't owe you or anyone else an explanation for my life's choices. I did what was best—not for me, not for him, but for my daughter. She has always been first—my first choice, my first thought, my first priority—and I would never do something that I thought would damage her or bring her pain. Now that might paint me as some kind of excuse-filled villain in your book, and given what you just told me, I wouldn't blame you. But don't you dare assume that I acted out of anything but love for my daughter, and a need to protect her."

It was the last few words that struck David Rossi, "What do you mean, _protect_ her?"

Mac opened her mouth, changed her mind, closed it again with a slight shake of her head. Her arms were firmly crossed over her chest, as if shielding herself from the cold (whether it was the coldness of the weather or the coldness of David's demeanor, it was hard to say).

The tension of the moment was shattered by the arrival of the rest of the BAU—Derek Morgan swung open the glass door with an easy flourish, allowing Kate Callahan to walk out first. Morgan's knowing grin was cut short when he saw Rossi's expression.

"You ready to roll?" He asked, though his tone was asking a completely different question (_you okay, man?_).

"Yup," Rossi gave a small nod, taking a beat to make eye contact so that the younger man could see that he was answering both the spoken and unspoken question.

Hotchner was out the door as well, sparing a moment for Macaraeg, "How long will your team be staying tonight?"

Mac glanced at her watch, more out of habit than actual reference. "Maybe an hour. It's about finding a semi-decent stopping point. Which, given the scope of the scene, is much easier said than done."

"Well, good luck with that," Hotch gave a perfunctory nod of farewell, though his tone didn't sound exactly hopeful. Mac merely waved him on with a wry smile of agreement.

Rossi spared one last look over his shoulder as the rest of the team made their way back to the main building's parking lot.

Mac was watching him with her wolf-eyes, her face an unreadable cross between sympathy and defiance.

"Man," Kate Callahan gave a heavy sigh, tilting her head up to look at the night sky. Her warm breath billowed up in clouds against the winter air, crisp and clean, melting into the inky blackness. "I'm so glad this day is over."

"Me, too," David murmured, turning his attention back to his team and forcefully shoving his melancholy thoughts aside. "Me, too."

* * *

_**Several Hours Earlier.**_

_**Java the Hutt. Washington, D.C.**_

"David Rossi."

For someone who'd spent some time in public scrutiny, Jordan Strauss still hadn't learned to control her body language—the sudden stillness of breath, the pupil-dilation of recognition, the way her hands gripped her coffee cup too tightly, all of these things informed Linnea Donovan Charles that she'd hit a mark.

The friendly smile and warm openness that had come to be a trademark of Jordan's personality (at least during her interactions with Linnea) disappeared as quickly as the shuttering of a window. Her tone was flat, almost aggressive, "What are you looking for, Linnea?"

"What?"

"You said you needed my help, but you didn't say why. Now's the time to 'fess up. What are you angling at?" In her expression, Jordan showed a distrust instilled in her through years of experience—Linnea thought of all the reporters who'd hounded this young woman before, willingly opening up her still-healing wounds with their questions and insinuations, attacking her like a pack of hounds during a fox hunt. She hated feeling like one of them. She hated inspiring that feeling of being hunted within Jordan even more.

"It's not what you think—"

"You know, I've lost track of how many times I've heard that line from you people," Jordan was on her feet now, popping off the to-go cup's plastic lid and unceremoniously tossing the leftover coffee into the bushes. "Thanks for the coffee—but I'm afraid I can't help you."

"Afraid of what?" Linnea challenged, knowing her question technically didn't make sense, but that didn't matter—for a half-second, it stopped Jordan, it kept her at the table.

Jordan opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind. She held up the paper cup, tipped it in a light salute of farewell and turned to leave. She chunked the cup into a recycling bin with a little more force than necessary, as if to punctuate her point (_one lousy cup of coffee—no matter how overpriced it is—isn't going to buy my cooperation_).

Linnea warred between wanting to rush after her and staying put. Instinct told her to let it go and try again later, but the desire to solve this building mystery was screaming for answers. She studied Jordan's body language as she continued down the street—quick, steady movements, ramrod-straight posture, shoulders tight with either fury or fear.

Then Jordan reached for her phone.

_Bingo_. Linnea had definitely struck a nerve—and whatever she'd hit, it'd forced Jordan to go back to the source. She'd bet good money that the younger woman was calling David Rossi right now.

* * *

Jordan Strauss was surprised to see her own hands shaking as she scrolled through her contacts. She told herself it was from the cold, but it was a useless lie.

There is was. She hit send.

It only rang once before a voice answered, "Yes, hello?"

"Carrington. It's Jordan. What the hell's happening at Quantico?"

* * *

"_To really ask is to open the door to the whirlwind. The answer may annihilate the question and the questioner."__  
__~Anne Rice__._


	32. Hold On a Little Longer

**Hold On a Little Longer**

"_There'll be no rest for the wicked__  
__There's no song for the choir__  
__There's no hope for the weary__  
__If you let them win without a fight….__  
__So won't you hold on a little longer?__  
__Don't let them get away."_

_~Lykke Li._

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"That poor woman," Judith murmured, her words muffled by the hand which she still clasped over her mouth.

"She's gonna be fine, Jude," Jack offered, though they both knew that he had no way to guarantee such a thing. He kept his eyes focused down the hallway, where they'd wheeled Agent Jareau into surgery. He reached over to gently pat the small of Jude's back again. "The doctor said the fluid had been building up for hours—it was only a matter of time before Agent Jareau had a seizure, it's not our fault."

"Well, we certainly didn't help the situation," Jude shot back easily. Her hand moved from her mouth to rub her forehead, the tiredness etched in the lines beneath her eyes. She quietly added, "I can't…I can't get her face out of my head. She kept looking at us—as if, as if we were supposed to _do_ something—"

"You can't focus on that, Jude. You'll get too worked up," he reminded her gently.

She nodded in agreement, taking a deep breath as she moved away from his hand.

A beat of heavy silence filled the air. Jack Dawson spoke again, choosing his words carefully, "Let's go back to the hotel. I think we've stretched the limit for the day."

She nodded again, her face aging a decade in a matter of seconds. She looked positively tattered, and it wasn't a sight that Jack Dawson liked seeing—his agents would run to the ends of the earth for him, but he had to remember that it wouldn't be without consequence. If Jonas was right, Jude was still recovering from the last case—and today would have definitely put her through her paces, even if she'd been back at full-force. He knew that if he could see his other agents right now, Jonas and Keller's faces would look remarkably similar, though they wouldn't give a second's worth of complaint.

They headed down the hallway in weary silence, each replaying the situation with Agent Jareau over and over in their minds.

As usual, Jack pushed himself to reach the door before her, to open it in a gallant fashion that managed to never seem patronizing. However, when Jude glanced up to offer a small smile of thanks, she could see the set of his dark brows—she knew something was brewing in that brain of his.

Her own brows quirked in askance, and Jack knew that as usual, Judith Eden had read him like a book. She walked through the door, stopping on the sidewalk to view him with careful and searching eyes—despite her fatigue, she could sense a mystery a mile away and was never one to leave such a thing unsolved.

He sidled up to her, hand gently on her elbow, guiding her towards the SUV. She obeyed, mimicking his body language by tilting her head towards his, as if she understood that whatever the question, it was meant to be shared between them only.

He glanced around to make sure they were alone before he quietly asked, "What was the last thing Agent Jareau said?"

Jude frowned slightly, her dark eyes automatically sliding upward as she searched her memory, "She was…telling us that we were taking things out of context. Defending her team."

"She listed names," Jack reminded her. "Three names—Haley, Erin—"

"And Maeve," Jude finished, her tone filling with remembrance. She stopped at the back of the SUV, turning to fully face her unit chief. "But who's Maeve?"

* * *

_**Carrington's House. Vienna, Virginia.**_

"I'm not sure I can answer that question," Dora Carrington admitted, a flutter of fear rolling through her stomach. Of all the people in the world, she hadn't suspected that Jordan Strauss would be calling her—not at this hour, and certainly not about this. Jordan had sounded keyed up, as if she'd taken a hit of something powerful (though Carrington knew that given her mother's history, Jordan avoided all drugs and alcohol like the plague). Whatever had pushed Jordan to call and ask about the bombing, it must have been something serious.

"Carrington." Jordan's voice was lined with doleful longsuffering, as if her request was perfectly within bounds, as if Carrington was the one inconveniencing _her_ by not answering quickly enough (a trait she'd definitely learned from her mother). "Do you think I'd call out of idle curiosity? You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't absolutely important."

Carrington bit her lip in indecision. Jordan had a point (though Carrington wished that sometimes, she _would_ just call out of curiosity, just to see how Carrington was, how she was handling life—she'd been Erin's secretary for eight years, yet no one seemed to understand how personally the loss had affected her…perhaps it was wrong, but she'd sometimes wished that she'd been able to share some moment of grief with Erin's family). But that also brought up the very important question: "Then why _are_ you calling, Jordan? Why are you asking these questions?"

"Because," Jordan gave a slight huff (jesus, so much like her mother). "Some reporter showed up at my bereavement group meeting, asking questions about the BAU."

So Jordan was still going to a support group. That was good. Carrington briefly considered asking her which one, but knew it would be too much of an invasion. So instead, she forced herself to focus on the matter at hand, "What kind of questions?"

"The kind that make you feel like you're part of a huge conspiracy theory and they're beginning to link everything and everyone together. I think this chick's getting the idea that somehow one of the BAU is involved."

Oh, so it was a _woman_ reporter, was it? Carrington briefly considered asking why this woman felt close enough to Jordan to ask such questions, but she stamped down the childish bout of jealousy. Whatever she'd had with Jordan, it had been barely-past-latent at best, and any chance of it being more had vanished in the wake of Erin's death. Carrington knew that she was a constant reminder of Jordan's mother and how she'd lost her life—something Jordan didn't always want to have around—and she understood that. Still, it didn't make the distance or the finality of it all hurt any less. Carrington sometimes wondered if she really regretted not getting a chance with Jordan or if she simply missed having some kind of connection to Erin. Few other people had seen the friendlier side of Strauss, and so there were few who could comfort Carrington, much less understand her grief at losing a woman who was more than a boss—a role model, even a friend at times, though something more like a bossy older sister whom she loved because of her attitude, not in spite of it. She'd never gotten full closure, and the frayed edges of that wound still hurt from time to time.

Like now. When part of Erin's life came back.

Carrington cleared her throat, trying to focus her tired mind, "What did you tell her, the reporter?"

"Nothing. I got up and left." Jordan sounded irritated that she even had to answer such a question. However, her irritation quickly melted into worry, "She sounded so certain, Carrington. Like she wasn't just fishing or shooting in the dark. She had a target. She _knew_."

"Knew what?"

"I don't know—that's why I called you!" The hysteria was creeping into Jordan's tone again. Carrington heard her take a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I'm just—it's been awhile since I've had to deal with that kind of thing and ever since last spring…it just makes me edgy, ya know?"

Carrington hummed in understanding. Last spring, in the weeks leading up to the anniversary of Erin's murder, some nutjob had stalked all three Strauss children, leaving them messages, claiming responsibility for their mother's death, declaring that the FBI had gotten the wrong man and that he was coming after them next. Carrington had wanted them to report it to the BAU, but Jordan and Christopher had refused—and Anna, the youngest, had been too terrified to go against her siblings. Instead, Jordan had enlisted the help of another family friend, a former FBI agent who'd known Erin as well—Rutherford Golden, who with the help of the D.C. Special Crimes Unit, was able to apprehend the guy, some delusional wacko who had spent too much time reading all the newspaper articles on the case and who'd decided to cash in on John Curtis' infamy, since the deceased Mr. Curtis certainly wasn't using it. Carrington still felt that the BAU should have been made aware of the situation—another bone of contention between Carrington and Jordan, another reason to keep further and further apart.

"But it's not the same as last spring, is it?" Carrington asked, more out of reassurance than actual query.

"No, you're right—it's totally not." Jordan seemed slightly calmer. "I mean, I've known Linnea for a while now—she used to be a part of the support group, a couple of months back. I can't say I entirely trust her—she's still a journalist, after all—but I do know she's not crazy. At least not like that."

"So what did she want, exactly?"

"She wanted to know if I knew David Rossi."

"Wait…is she saying that he had something to do with today's attack?" Carrington bolted upright, her gut clenching with fear. Jesus, she'd spend the morning chatting with him, helping him figure out what was going on—he seemed so concerned…could he really be the man behind all this?

"I don't know. She just asked about him."

"How?"

"Like, she asked if I knew him. I didn't wait to hear her next question—I split."

"Well, _that_ was a silent admission of guilt—"

"Yeah, I realize I wasn't exactly Agent Smooth Moves, Carrington. There's a reason I work at the goddamn Women's History Museum and not the Federal Bureau of Investigation, OK?" Despite her snarky tone, Jordan was beginning to sound much calmer, much more herself again.

"But that was it? Did she say—I mean, why did she seek you out in the first place?"

"She just said that something had landed in her lap—those were her exact words, because I remember thinking it was a really odd turn of phrase. She wanted to see if I could help, because of Mom. In group…I'd shared my story a couple of times, and so she knew that Mom was in the FBI, and so…she just took a guess that perhaps I would know someone from the FBI, too."

"That someone being David Rossi."

"Yeah, I guess. She could have tried to name others, but I didn't give her the chance."

"And then what?"

"I called you. I mean, I've seen the news—I even had a few people asking if I knew something before group tonight, like I'm hardwired into the Bureau or something. Which is laughable, considering the fact that I couldn't even tell you the basics of my mother's job until I was in college—she _never_ talked about it, even after I read all of Dave's books that she kept in her private study." Jordan gave a sigh, quickly resetting her train of thought back on the proper track, "Anyways, I know what's happened, or at least what the official story is. Now I need to know what the hell's really going on, and why Linnea would think that Dave could ever be a part of something like that."

"I…I don't know," Carrington admitted slowly, hand reflexively going upward to tug and twirl on a strand of her dark brown hair. "I mean, I saw Agent Rossi today, but only for a little while. From what I understand, he's part of the investigation—the BAU was meeting up with a team they brought in from down state, the general consensus being that they were building a profile….but I didn't see him after that, so…who knows?"

Jordan sighed heavily.

Carrington bit her lip, "I'm sorry I'm not more helpful."

"No, no, it's fine," Jordan assured her wearily. "I just…I'm still kicking myself over not waiting to see what Linnea's game was. I mean, I don't even know what paper she writes for—I don't even know her last _name_."

"What?"

"Well, the bereavement group's a lot like AA or NA or any other group like that. We don't use last names, we don't give out too much personal information—I mean, you do still have to protect yourself in there, there's trolls and reporters and actors studying for parts, a whole slew of freaks who get off on other people's sob stories or who like inventing their own just to get a reaction from people. As if the whole loss and recovery shit wasn't hard enough."

"Jesus," Carrington breathed. She'd never realized what a dark hole something as innocent-seeming as a support group could be.

"Yeah. It's a real three-ring circus sometimes," Jordan's tone was wry with amusement. "But it's only sometimes. And you learn to deal with it—and usually, you learn how to sniff out the imposters pretty quickly. Whatever Linnea's deal is, I do know that her loss is real. So I'll give her that much."

"What are you gonna do now?" Carrington asked quietly.

Another deep breath. "I dunno. I think I'm gonna go back to Linnea, see what she really wants. I mean, it's the only way to get to the bottom of this, right?"

"I don't know, Jordan—"

"I'm not going back _right_ _now_. I'm gonna see what I can find on her first. And then I'm going back on _my_ terms."

"Let me come with you."

"No. No way."

"Why not?"

"Carrington—you're _actual_ FBI personnel. I can't bring you along. It'll only fuel the conspiracy nut within her."

"She's one of those."

"Well…she's a journalist. Aren't they all, deep down, in some way or another?"

Carrington laughed at the oversimplification.

"What? They are," Jordan defended herself, allowing her tone to become slightly playful. "They've watched too many films and TV shows featuring intrepid truth-seeking journalists who get swept up into huge government cover-ups. They believe that shit more than anyone else. It's like they have a built-in persecution complex."

"Probably a requirement for the job."

"Probably." Jordan was smiling, Carrington could hear it in her voice. However, she sobered again, "Look, I'm sorry I bothered you—"

"But you will tell me, if you find anything new?"

"Only if you promise to do the same."

"Deal."

"Alright then, deal."

Carrington set her cellphone back on the table beside her couch. She'd been mindlessly watching reruns on the all-night channel, trying to lull her brain into a stupor so that she could finally go to sleep. Jordan's call had the opposite effect—there was no way she could drift to sleep after a discussion like that.

Despite Jordan's jokes about the whole thing, it really was beginning to sound like some huge conspiracy theory cover-up. Carrington was someone who preferred the simpler answer, but after all that had happened today, the likelihood of a simple explanation seemed farther and farther away.

A chill ran up her spine. She clapped her hands on her upper arms, trying to still her trembling body. This had the same eerie feeling as the Replicator case—and given how that had ended, Carrington really didn't want a repeat of history.

She promised herself that she'd talk to Chief Cruz, first thing tomorrow morning. Tell him everything, see what he made of it. She didn't quite trust him as much as she had Strauss, but she supposed that it had to start somewhere—and in the short time that she had known her current boss, she knew he was a good man. She could count on that, at least.

As for anything else…well, Dora Carrington had learned a long time ago not to hope for too much.

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Jack Dawson, your level of hope is both endearing and saddening," Sura Roza admitted, pursing her lips as she continued her search. "I mean, you give me a name—an uncommon name, to be sure, but still, a single first name—with no other identifying characteristics or any kind of context, and you just expect me to have the answer immediately."

"Well, not immediately—I was going to give you a five-minute grace period," his tone was dry, but laced with teasing. Roza knew that her infamously unstoppable leader was feeling the late hour as well—she could hear it in his voice.

"OK, just so you know, I don't just type in 'Maeve' and 'BAU' and get instant results. It doesn't work that way."

"Wait….you're telling me the magic search engine machine isn't magic?"

"Not by half, love. Thankfully for you, the woman operating it is."

He chuckled at that line. "Then work your magic, O Sura, Full of Grace—"

Roza could hear Jude's voice in background, correcting him "Information. Full of _Information_, Dawson."

"Yeah, whatever," he seemed unimpressed.

"Look, I'll try to work my magic—I'm just warning, it's gonna be a while." Sura informed him.

"Define 'a while'."

"It's a technical term for 'indefinite amount of time', Jack."

"Nice to see you don't let a daunting task crush your indomitable spirit, Roza."

"Fighting Irish, all the way, baby." She spared a grin as she continued her search. "Look, I've narrowed the search specifically to the BAU—but there's nothing in their jackets that's popping up."

"Doesn't mean there isn't a connection, Sura."

"I'm well aware of that, sir. I'm just saying that we've sent the BAU home almost an hour ago, and I don't think any of them would take too kindly to being called back in right now."

Dawson gave a heavy sigh. "You're right. Of course—we should probably call it a night, too. Eden and I are already heading back to the hotel. Pack it in for the night, Sura, and tell Keller and Shostakovich to do the same."

"Aye, aye, Captain Jack. I'm gonna spend a few more minutes trying—"

"Only a few. We're gonna have an early start in the morning."

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her. "Understood, sir. See ya in the morning."

"And Sura?"

"Yeah?"

"Pirates of Caribbean?"

"What? I'm trying to mix it up. Keep ya on your toes."

He gave a dry laugh before he hung up. She instinctively knew that Jack Dawson was rolling his eyes.

She set her cellphone back onto the desk, returning her full attention to the task at hand. When Jess and Jonas returned, she informed them of Jack's decision to end for the night. They were too tired to even look relieved at the news. Jonas had the good manners to wait until she'd shut everything down for the night, but Jess was already out the door and waiting in the SUV. Not that Sura blamed her—it had been a long, hard day for all of them.

* * *

_**Interstate 95, Southbound. Somewhere between D.C. and Dumfries, VA.**_

Jack Dawson gave a heavy sigh after he ended the call with Sura. He glanced over at Judith, who was focused on the world outside her passenger window. The silence wasn't uncomfortable—in fact, it usually accompanied their workflow. That was one of the first things he'd noticed and appreciated about Judith Eden, all those years ago—she could sit alone with her thoughts, and she could allow him to do the same. Most of the time, it seemed like she could even anticipate his thoughts or feelings without him even stating them aloud. It was no muss, no fuss, and Jack Dawson was grateful for it.

She didn't ask why he'd told everyone to call it quits, didn't ask anything at all. She'd once told him that she didn't like pointless questions (found _anything_ pointless particularly frustrating, to be honest), and she didn't like asking questions when she was fairly certain that she could deduce the answer herself, unless it was an exercise in the Socratic method or related to investigating a case.

Normally, he would let her sit with her thoughts, grateful for the chance to do the same—but after the events of the day, and particularly after the events at the hospital, he felt that he shouldn't let Jude retreat too far inside her own head.

"I'll call and check on Agent Jareau in the morning," he assured her (she was thinking about it, so he might as well say it). "It's the best we can do, for now."

She nodded, making a small noise of agreement. She lightly dabbed the corners of her eyes, and he knew that she'd been on the verge of tears.

He waited a few beats before speaking again, "Helluva day."

She gave a huff of dry amusement. "Helluva day after a helluva week."

"No rest for the wicked."

Jude started humming an unfamiliar tune. As they sped past a bank of streetlamps, Jack looked at her in askance.

"Some song Keller was listening to," she shrugged in way of answering his unspoken question. "It was something about no rest for the wicked—I don't remember the lyrics by heart, but you just reminded me of it. Lovely piano melody."

Jack's face scrunched in confusion, "Wait…are you talking about the Lykke Li song?"

"My, my, Jack Dawson, look at you—being all hip and up-to-date on what the kids are listening to these days."

"Sura was playing it—I think her eldest daughter is a Lykke Li fan." He gave a self-effacing smile. "Seriously, that's the only way I'd know something like that. You know I'm a classics kind of guy."

She rolled her eyes in acknowledgement—at their last post-case dinner party, Dawson had been in charge of music, and he'd played cello suites all night long. Eden had complained (loudly and often) that it was impossible to dance to. Jonas' husband Lise, ever one to prove a point, had merely swept the Englishwoman across the back patio in a waltz, though Judith had laughed in protest the whole time.

That had been a good night—the last warm, harmonious, jovial interaction with the whole team. Two days later, they'd been called out on the Harrison case. God, it felt like a hundred years ago.

"Do you think this Maeve will be something special?" Jude asked quietly, her dark eyes still fixed on the quickly-changing landscape outside her window.

He knew what she meant by the question (_will this be the clue that unlocks something, unlocks everything?_). With a light sigh, he admitted, "I dunno. And I can't even say which outcome I'm hoping for. I want this case to be over, but, heaven help me, I don't want it to be one of the BAU."

Now she turned slightly towards him, her voice warm with a knowing smile, "They got to you, too, huh?"

"Not on the level that they've affected you," he assured her.

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm not…I don't know, I'm not as invested in their innocence—"

"Jack. Dawson. You are more invested in their innocence than you allow yourself to be in any other case—the fact that you even _have_ a bias, no matter how small that bias may seem, is still a huge deal. You're the most impartial man I know."

"Jeez, Jude, you make me sound like a robot."

"Well, you are—compared to me and my sloppy bleeding heart." She was grinning now, "I'd love to know how the members of the Behavioral Analysis Unit have won the fair heart of the impervious Jack Dawson."

"Oh, good grief. You sound like some trashy romance novelist."

"In another life, perhaps. I'm too busy living a trashy detective novel to write anything."

"What level of trashy are we talking about?"

"Positively lurid."

He laughed at that. "Man, some interesting things must be happening whenever I leave the room. You need to let me in on these lurid moments—give me something to break the tedium."

"Oh, _this_ is tedium? Hunting down a domestic terrorist who's been parading as an FBI agent?" She gave a huff of disbelief. "I'd hate to see your idea of interesting, Agent Dawson."

He had to shrug in acquiescence to her point. "Today's an exception. Though I will admit that recently, we've had way too many exceptions in that regard."

She nodded in agreement, suddenly becoming more somber as she turned away again. "Yes. Yes we have."

He glanced down at his phone, thumbing through a list of apps.

"Please don't kill us," her voice was flat, unworried. She didn't even bother glancing away from her window. "Texting and driving is against the law, you know."

"Good thing I'm not texting then." He found what he was looking for and gave a small smile of satisfied triumph as he sat his phone back into an empty cupholder.

Over the speakers, music filled the car, thanks to the Bluetooth function. A piano clinked in a haunting tune.

Jude's head whipped around, her eyes wide as she looked at him. She recognized it immediately.

She began to laugh, tired and drained and suddenly amused by it all. He shared her relieved amusement, allowing himself a wide grin.

Lykke Li continued crooning as they barreled through the darkness.

* * *

"_May Light always surround you;  
Hope kindle and rebound you.  
May your Hurts turn to Healing;  
Your Heart embrace Feeling.  
May Wounds become Wisdom;  
Every Kindness a Prism.  
May Laughter infect you;  
Your Passion resurrect you.  
May Goodness inspire__  
your Deepest Desires.  
Through all that you Reach For,__  
May your arms Never Tire."__  
~__D. Simone._


	33. Realign

**Realign**

"_Every relationship that has hit a crossroads has asked, "What is it that you want from me?"__  
~__Shannon L. Alder._

* * *

_**Derek &amp; Savannah's House. Washington, D.C.**_

The door from the garage whined slightly, and Derek Morgan made a mental note to spray some WD-40 on it in the morning. Savannah always preferred a house that made some noise (_let's me know when someone's sneaking up on me_), but to Morgan, a noisy house was a neglected house—he took too much pride in his home and his work to allow anyone to think such a thing. He might not be home with Savannah every single night, but by god, he could make sure she had doors and cabinets that opened properly and a home that looked loved.

_That's the thing about looks, though, isn't it?_ His sister Desiree's voice echoed in his head. _Nothing's what it seems._

_Not true_. He shook his head, mentally arguing with his sister's voice (which, yes, was really his own inner voice, he was well aware of how crazy he was becoming). _Some things are exactly what they seem—you just gotta learn how to tell which is which._

He tiredly tossed his car keys into the long wooden bowl on the kitchen counter, reaching up to rub the muscles in his neck and shoulder—his old injury from being thrown out a window by George Foyet, the night he should have died (sadly, just one more night on a long list of many such nights), the one that always ached under strain and stress. A sure sign that he was taking the events of the day pretty hard—though he supposed carrying a grown woman down several flights of stairs like he was rescuing a kitten from a burning building probably hadn't helped, either.

Not that he regretted it for a single second, of course. He smiled softly as he recalled the joy of hearing Penelope's voice in the darkness, the moment he knew that his Babygirl was alive, seeing the same grateful relief in her face when she looked up at him—she'd been stained by soot and tears and blood and sweat, and yet, if Heaven had a face, he'd swear it looked just like that.

It wasn't the best day, but it certainly wasn't the worst. He couldn't even bring himself to think about what would've happened if he hadn't found Garcia, if she'd come out in one of those body bags—the briefest suggestion of it made his entire body tense and his head involuntarily shake away the thought.

He opened the refrigerator—Savannah had texted him a few hours earlier, saying she'd ordered steaks from their favorite place, and at the sight of the familiar to-go box, his stomach suddenly remembered how empty it was.

Obviously Arturo had been working tonight—he always doubled up on Derek's side items (_you're a good tipper and you never treat me like just some guy slinging steaks, ya know?_) and always made sure it was good, lean cut of meat on the plate. Derek made another mental note to thank Arturo the next time he saw the younger man, which would probably be very soon. They often crossed paths on their respective morning runs—Derek jogging, Arturo delivering early-morning orders from his father's deli, which also functioned as a hole-in-the-wall steakhouse in the evenings.

As tired as he was, his mind wasn't ready to shut-off yet. So he finished his dinner and decided to indulge with a beer—maybe a dash of alcohol would help settle his brain. He slipped off his shoes and sank into the couch, sitting in the quiet darkness of the living room. The sickly yellow glow of the streetlamps still filtered through the windows, giving form and shape to the rest of the room—the entertainment system (Savannah had laughed when she saw it—_neither one of us is ever home to enjoy TV, why have so much stuff?_), the wall of books that ranged from the history of the police force (his) to medical textbooks (hers) to The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe (theirs, together). There were framed photos—his family, her family, their smiling faces together, her med school graduation, his police academy portrait, the BAU at their housewarming party, a girls night out with the surgical team, rare moments where their two separate and distinct lives collided.

The photos had been her idea. Derek Morgan had never been one for framing memories—he was too busy living to record it, to stop and pull back and take a photo. It wasn't that he didn't respect the past, or that he preferred to forget—rather, he preferred keeping his own version of the moment in his memory, the one softened and affected by time and affection. The camera recorded everything in flat form, unbiased, clinical, unchanging. But the mind—now _that_ gave you more than a simple photo ever could. It reminded you of how you felt, what you felt, what you wanted, what you knew. Photos could lie, they took only a millisecond of an entire memory, they didn't allow for intuition and interpretation. Memories could lie, too, but they were expected to, so that somehow made it more comforting, in a way.

A car passed, the high beams of its headlights slicing through the shadows, temporarily blinding him. It receded like the tide, slipping away as darkness took over once more. A dog barked into the night, the rest of the street was silent. The beer was sweating in his hand and Savannah's scent lingered on the couch—a mix of antiseptic and floral notes (she couldn't wear perfume or scented lotion at work, due to potential patient allergies, but when she was home, she practically swam in the stuff). He knew that she'd spent way too many nights on this couch, passed out after a hard day's work, too tired to make it to the bed. Sometimes, she claimed that she simply didn't want to wake him, and now he knew what that really meant—she'd lost a patient on the operating table, or otherwise the procedure hadn't gone well, perhaps a lost limb or a diagnosis of inoperable cancer. Those were the times when she drifted away, when she turned inward and kept to the shadows, healing herself on her own.

Derek understood that—after all, that was his first instinct as well. But he'd also learned how unhealthy that could become as well. No one person was meant to shoulder the burden of the world. That was the whole point of partners, of mates, of spouses and best friends and all those things that made life worth living—you needed someone to share burdens with, to make the road easier and the darkness less lonely. Derek Morgan wasn't a foolish man—he knew that he couldn't solve Savannah's problems, that she didn't need saving by a white knight, knew that all he could do was help her through the rough patches and support her when she felt unsteady, nothing more, nothing less. He knew it was a matter of trust, and he knew that she trusted him—but she still saw sharing her troubles as being some kind of burden to him, which in turn made him feel like she saw his problems as a burden to her. It wasn't a deal-breaker, just another bridge to cross.

And what would be a deal-breaker? Morgan wasn't sure he'd considered the question—because honestly, when was the last time that he'd gotten this far into a relationship? He'd moved in with a girlfriend in his mid-twenties, and it had been a horrific bust after two years, though he had never regretted it, because he'd learned a lot about himself and about relationships as well. JJ had pushed him to break past his usual defense of _she just doesn't get me_, and he was grateful for that, because in doing so, he'd been forced to confront the walls he'd put in place years ago, walls that hurt him perhaps more than they protected him, walls that had been there for so long that he'd completely forgotten about their presence. The excuses and the defenses had become ingrained, melding into his personality and shaping his life's story without his realization.

There were still walls that had to be broken down, walls that required daily chipping, walls that protested against their own removal—and he told himself that the pain and discomfort would be worth the end result. Just like remodeling a house. In the beginning, it seems easy; in the middle it seems overwhelming and pointless and a complete wreck; in the end, it's absolutely worth it.

Well, most of the time. During his many years of renovations, he'd stumbled across a few rare cases where tearing down and revamping had only uncovered more problems, causing more damage than ever imagined. But he had to remain hopeful in his analogy—despite his mind's immediate attempt to see the darker side.

_Mr. Worst Case Scenario_. Desi used to tease him about his innate ability to see the potential bad outcome in every situation (she still did, sometimes, though as they grew older, she'd become more gentle in her teasing, knowing that his day job brought enough darkness to validate his sense of impending doom). It had always been a survival mechanism for him, a coping mechanism—if he rode the bus, he sat back and thought of a dozen things that could go wrong, and think about exactly how he'd get out of each situation. Thankfully he was able to find a line of work where his natural habits could be honed into a viable skill-set that _actually_ helped people.

Yes, he had much to be thankful for. His job, his friends, his team—that bright shining spot in every single day of his life that was filled-to-bursting with a neon streak of joy, a doe-eyed blonde who always made him smile and who never let him lose a sense of faith and wonder at the world around him.

Not for the first time that evening (and not even for the last), he let his thoughts drift to the woman in question. He wondered if she was truly as alright as she'd said, and how she was coping with the heavy events of the day. He gently reminded himself that if there was a problem, his Babygirl would let him know. They'd always been like that—able to connect and discuss anything and everything, no matter how dark or fearful it might be.

Besides, he reminded himself. She was with Sam. He was her boyfriend, he could handle whatever happened. Couldn't he?

* * *

_**Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

Penelope felt so overwhelmed that she wanted to scream. Ever since Sam had appeared to pick her up at the hospital, her mind had run with one single thought. Not relief, not comfort, no—all she could think about was how desperately this thing needed to end between them. Surely this made her a horrible person, but the need to cut this cord suddenly was too great to let go, to reason away, to keep silent. She'd tried to convince herself that it was the fatigue and the stress talking, and yet, her attempts seemed to only further solidify the truth.

She'd been holding on too long. She'd learned the hard way (time and again) that holding on to something you were meant to let go only made it worse, in the end. She'd had a rough day, but it was the kind that put things into perspective—and she knew what she had to do, what she'd needed to do for quite some time now.

Sam knew something was wrong before she even opened her mouth. Penelope could see it in his face—he knew, even though he didn't want to.

"Sam…" She began, lost her courage, faltered, fumbled, felt her lungs quivering like jelly in her ribcage. "Sam, I—"

"It's OK," he assured her, simply wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her closer. He planted a kind kiss on her forehead. "It's been a long day, Pen. You're tired, you've been stressed to the max. But it's all OK now."

"No, it's not OK," she pushed back slightly, disengaging from his embrace to sit up fully, making sure that he was looking into her eyes—she needed him to see how certain she was, how serious. "It's not OK, and it _hasn't_ been OK for a while."

"What are you talking about?" His face flooded with confusion.

"Sam, I know how this is going to look—it's been a crazy day, I've seen more than anyone should ever have to see, and I've…I've been through a lot in the past sixteen hours." She took a deep breath to steel herself (_just get it over with—make the cuts quick, precise, as painless as possible, it's not like you haven't ever done this before_). "But sometimes it's days like this that make you see things—things you should've admitted a long time ago."

"Penelope." He knew. He knew and he wanted to stop it.

"No, please don't—this is hard enough, please don't make it worse." She shifted further back, further away from the warmth and safety that Sam had always radiated. "Today made me re-evaluate—take stock of my life and what I wanted and what I don't and…."

"And you don't want this." He finished for her. Defeated. Heartbroken. His face shattered and accepting.

"I'm sorry," was all she could find to say, and she knew it wasn't enough. She let the words tumble out, trying to do what she could to mitigate the damage, "It's not that I've always felt this way—for a while, you were exactly what I needed, _everything_ that I'd needed in a boyfriend. You saw me as more than my job, as just a girl with just a life and it was wonderful and one of the best gifts anyone could ever give me. You made me feel whole and grounded and balanced again, and—"

"And then something changed. But…what?" The last word was barely a breath, as if it even hurt to ask. "What did I do wrong, Pen?"

Tears welled up again, clouding her eyes. She blinked, trying to remain as calm as possible (_if you cry, he won't believe you, he'll think you're being silly and overemotional and he'll think you're just rattled by the day_). There was a time, when as the Black Queen she would have easily shuttered away her emotions, sneering at her own inner weakness and controlling her feelings with a deft and practiced hand—and for the first time in a very long time, she wished that version was still around.

"Nothing." She assured him. It wasn't entirely true. She bit her lip, trying to find the words. "It's just…somewhere along the way, you fell into seeing me as just a girl with just a life, and you…forgot that it's not all that I am. You simplified me."

"But…you made me," he leaned forward, his face shining with earnestness. "You—you shield me, Penelope. There are times when I know you don't tell me everything, because you think…I guess you think I can't handle it. And I let it go, because I think that maybe it helps, not having to talk about it—like maybe you need someone who isn't going to dig too deeply into your day, who lets you forget about your work—"

"But that's just it. I never forget, Sam. It's with me, it's part of me now. I've been doing this job longer than I've done anything else in my life—it's more than just a job, it's always been more than just a job. And I need someone who can see that—someone who can see it and not be scared by it, someone who can see it and understand it and—"

"Someone like Derek Morgan?"

The question hit her like a suckerpunch to the gut. "Wha…what?"

"Oh, c'mon, Penelope. I've seen the way he looks at you." Now his confused hurt was melting into righteous anger. "I put up with your nicknames and your inside jokes and the nights you two spend with each other instead of your significant others—I told myself you couldn't be that way, you wouldn't be that woman—"

"Sam, I'm _not_—"

"But if you decided to be, that man would follow your lead in a heartbeat."

"You're crazy—you're angry and you're looking for someone to blame and it's…it's not like you, Sam."

Her words had a calming effect—he turned his head, having the good grace to look slightly ashamed at his actions. "I'm sorry. I've…I've felt you drifting, Pen, and at first, I blamed work….I blamed my own busy schedule, my own whatever—then I wondered if perhaps you weren't spending so much time at work, but rather with your coworker—"

"Sam."

"Is it really so hard to believe?" He threw up his hands in exasperation.

She considered the question, "No, I guess not. But…but you know how it really is between us."

"No, I don't, Penelope. And I don't think you do, either." He was on his feet now, moving across the room, changing his mind and moving back to her. "I don't want to be here anymore, but I don't think you should be left alone, not after…not after today—what do you want me to do?"

When he glanced over at her, he saw a fresh spring of tears in her eyes.

"This is exactly what you don't get, Sam." Her voice was small, quiet, heartbroken. "You think I can't be left alone—but the truth is, I've spent most of my life alone. And if I'm being honest, I'm going to spend a good part of it still on my own. It's not some melodramatic tragedy, it's my life. And I'm not some girl who needs to be saved, I'm a girl who's been surviving—_thriving_—exactly where I am. Because I chose this a long time ago, and I don't regret it. You act like all of this, my job, my life, all of it, is something that just happened to me, but I _sought_ this out. I chose it—and I choose it over and over again, every single day. I don't want your pity or your protection or…whatever you think I need. I just need someone to see me—just see me, all of me, as I am. And just…accept it."

"You think I can't do that."

Her expression contorted in painful sympathy. "I think even if you tried, we're far past the point of making it work."

He looked down at the floor, defeated. "Yeah. I guess you're right."

He grabbed his coat and leaned over to give her one last kiss on the head, "See ya, Pen."

"Wait," she shifted to the edge of the couch, suddenly bewildered. "Shouldn't…do you need to talk about this?"

Now it was his turn to offer a small, sad smile as he reached for the door, "I think we've said all that we need to say."

He opened the door, then stopped, stepping back inside for a moment. "I'd like…I'd still like to check in on you, tomorrow—to make sure you're OK. Is that…?"

She smiled, "Yeah. I'd like that, very much."

He stepped out again, but she called him back, "Sam?"

He looked up, taking a deep breath to steel himself. That small act of bravery nearly broke her heart all over again.

"It wasn't…who you are, how you saw me—it wasn't a bad thing. It was very, very good."

His lips twisted into a smile, one that didn't reach his eyes.

"But it wasn't good enough, Pen."

* * *

_**Superior Suites. Dumfries, VA. (5 miles from Quantico)**_

"You really think Agent Morgan's hot?"

Judith gave a heavy sigh in response, her breath stirring the thick stillness of the dark hotel room.

"I thought we'd already put that question to bed," she rolled onto her side, hand slipping over her partner's hip, planting a kiss on that deliciously bare shoulder. "Literally."

This only earned her an unsatisfied hum from Jessalyn Keller, who didn't respond to the gentle trill of Judith's lips against her skin.

Judith couldn't help but give a noiseless chuckle, a mixture of true amusement and frustration—Jess was younger, less assured, and this was her first committed relationship with a woman, and her incomprehension of her own sexual fluidity was being transferred onto her lover. Of course, this wasn't Judith's first rodeo with a confused and jealous paramour; she'd survived many a storm of such a nature (with Jess and with others as well), and she knew she'd survive many more (whether they'd all be with Jess or others, that was still to be decided, though she knew how she hoped that question would be answered).

So instead of psychobabble, she resorted to physical reassurance. Her teeth came out to play, nipping the places she'd previously kissed, then coming down with slightly more pressure. It was only fair—she knew Jess had left marks on her as well, and she'd allowed it (because Jess had needed it, needed to leave little tokens that said _I was here, you put yourself into my hands willingly, and you let those hands leave marks, because you knew, you always knew you were mine and I was yours_). Her fingers tightened their hold around those younger, firmer hips, pulling Jess back to her again.

"Why so jealous, darling?" She purred, her accent becoming so much more pronounced with her taunting tone.

"I'm not jealous," Jessalyn retorted, not pulling away but still unresponsive.

"And why not?" Judith persisted.

"Because I know you," the words slipped out before Jess could even think about them. In that moment, the reality dawned on her (she _did_ know Judith, and in that knowledge came the truth that regardless of whatever walked in front of her eyes, her heart was still in Jess' keeping). Sure, whenever they were in the field, they played up the act of mutual dislike, and Judith made a show of ogling every man that walked by—but that was part of their cover, part of the plan they'd both agreed to, years ago, when this first started.

"Mm-hmm," the amusement was evident in the older woman's tone. Jess could feel her smiling against her skin as her lips traveled to the back of Jess' neck. "You know me, in every aspect of the word."

Jessalyn let out a light chuckle (that statement was certainly true), giving her head a small shake of incredulity, "You and your damn mind games, Judith Eden."

"It wasn't a game," her lover assured her. "Agent Morgan is a handsome man. It's a fact, and no one's immune to facts, my darling. I never said I was going to bang his brains out—_you_ were the one jumping to that conclusion. Though I do so love you for thinking that an old bag like me would ever have a chance with someone like that."

"Wait…so now you're saying that I'm less attractive than Agent Morgan?"

"What? No."

"You said you'd never have a chance with someone like that—implying that I am, in fact, _not_ someone like that."

"Jess—"

"Oh, no, no, no," the younger woman's tone was positively gleeful, in direct opposition to her words. "You think Derek Morgan's more attractive than I am."

Judith knew this argument was a false one, a playful thing that Jess would use as leverage to extract some kind of favor (usually the kind they both found rewarding). Still she played her part, sitting up so that Jess could see the mock-seriousness of her face, "I would never think such a thing—"

Jessalyn rolled further over, further away, "You've made your bed, Eden, and now you have to lie in it—"

"But it would be so much nicer if you were in it," Judith returned smoothly, leaning over to place another kiss under the curve of her lover's shoulder blade.

"I _am_ in it," Jess pointed out, the hint of a smile in her voice.

"Why, yes, you are." Her tone was feigned surprise, though when Jess rolled over to look at her again, there was a wicked smile upon her face. She sat up, pushing herself back onto her knees as she placed her hands on either side of Jess' shoulders. "And since you are in my bed, I should probably make the most of a golden opportunity."

The younger woman was grinning as well now, reaching up to caress the side of Judith's face.

Still, something nagged at the edge of Judith's thoughts—her own smile faded, concern filling her dark eyes, "You do—you know that I do find you beautiful, don't you? You were absolutely breathtaking, from the moment I saw you."

Jess bit her lip shyly, eyes shining with adoration even as she doubted her love's words.

Judith persisted, "You _are_ someone like that, my darling. I never would have even dreamed—if you hadn't have made the first move, I wouldn't—"

"The first move?" Jess sat up suddenly, bringing her nose just inches from Judith's. "I didn't make the first move, you—"

"Oh, ye gods and little fishes, yes you did!" Judith sat back on her heels now, pointing a finger of mock-accusation at her partner. "_You_ were the one who kissed _me_, on the case in Lynchburg—"

"Well, yeah, but that was after months of you…with your…_flirting_—"

"Flirting? What flirting? I didn't even know you _liked_ women, I kept it strictly heteronormative between us—"

"Oh, please! All those sideways glances and almost-touches—"

"Sideways glances? _Almost_-touches? Who the fuck am I, Jane Austen?"

Now Jessalyn lost it, head bowing forward as she snorted in laughter (she always snorted when she laughed, a trait that seemed in complete opposition to her flawless features, a humanizing imperfection which had instantly endeared her to Judith), shoulders shaking as she tried to hold back more waves of mirth—she never was a match for Judith's dry humor, but a definite lack of sleep only weakened her defenses and made her giddy with fatigue.

Judith was laughing softly too, dipping her head to recapture her lover's mouth with her own, hums of amusement reverberating between their lips—her heart soared when Jess laughed, no matter the reason or the situation. Jess was a beautiful thing, which only made her inner darkness seem that much more tragic—she was a girl with a smile that could light a thousand worlds, a face built for happiness and sunshine, whose own body betrayed its purpose as her brain's inability to produce adequate levels of serotonin and norepinephrine often left her as grey and lifeless as the flat English sky. Judith understood clinical depression, and deep down, she understood that she could never truly cure Jess of her condition, nor could she allow herself to take full responsibility for ensuring Jess' happiness. Still, she strove to make herself a safe haven for the younger woman, offering a quiet and gentle ear to Jessalyn's sobering confessions of feeling helpless and adrift, giving no advice nor making any attempt to dismiss her lover's fears and feelings or even soothe them away, instead letting Jess express herself without fear of judgment or recrimination (though sometimes it hurt, knowing she'd tried so hard to help and yet it wasn't enough to release Jess from her own biological makeup). And she found ways to make that smile reappear, even in the softest and briefest of forms—a small chocolate left in the top drawer of her desk, a random picture of a cute puppy or kitten sent via text, a self-effacing joke, a kiss placed exactly on the heartline of her palm, a simple and deep hug at the end of a long day. Judith knew her little tokens and affections were a Sisyphean feat, but oh, what a wonderful way to waste her life.

"It's the accent, isn't it?" Judith asked, when their mouths finally pulled apart again. Jess snorted in response, and Judith pursued the line of humor with full force, "It is, isn't it? You hear this accent and you think I'm just some frigid, uppity Englishwoman, so of _course_ you go to Austen, American that you are—"

Jess stopped her with an adoring smile, cupping her face with both hands as she purred, "Jude, my darling, you are many things, but the very last word I'd use to describe you is frigid."

The older woman kissed her again, then restated, "You were the one who made the first move. You can deny it all you like, but it's the god's honest truth."

"Fine," Jess smirked, giving her another quick peck. "I concede. I made the first move. I felt that first spark and I saw those questioning glances and I realized that I'd spend forever waiting on you to finally do something, so I took the initiative."

"Yes, you did," Judith's grin deepened as she warmly remembered the first kiss in question—and all the things that followed it.

Jess' phone jangled, and their quiet little world was shattered.

"Gotta go," Jess informed her regretfully—a totally unnecessary statement, as Judith was well aware of what the alarm on her phone meant (after all, it was part of a system they'd developed during their years in the field together). She sat up, swiveling her legs over the edge of the bed as she turned off the alarm and turned on the bedside lamp.

Judith moved forward, fingers trailing along her lover's jawline, turning Jess' face back towards her. She kissed her, gently at first, then with increasing intensity, pushing her back onto the mattress. Her hands were becoming hungry again, wandering the planes of Jess' body.

Jessalyn didn't protest, but rather encouraged the older woman's movements. Judith Eden was a woman of surprising passion, but it wasn't the desire behind her actions that touched Jess' soul—it was the sense of need that spoke to her. All of her life, Jessalyn Keller had been told that she was a beautiful girl. Not pretty, not good-looking, but _beautiful_. There was something different about that particular adjective, something that set her aside, like a china doll on a shelf, a rare book displayed in a glass case. Men desired her, wanted her, craved her, but they never _needed_ her. The few girls she'd messed around with in college certainly had never needed her, either. She was a distraction, a conquest, a feather in a cap—an exotic bird, to be hunted, captured, and set upon a wall of trophies, soon forgotten in the fervor of the next chase, the next hunt, the next victory.

People didn't love beautiful people. They worshipped them, adored them, but they didn't _love_ them. They didn't need them, either. It was an awful, empty feeling, knowing you could spend your entire life needing so many people, yet never be needed by a single one.

Judith had changed that. She'd looked at Jess, and there had been the lightest flicker in those compassionate brown eyes—yes, the first flash had been attraction, appreciation for her form (a look Jess knew all too well), but what had followed was something different. Something empathetic.

Her lover was a beautiful woman, too—Jess had always thought that, though she also understood that Judith's beauty wasn't conventional. Hers came from a charismatic personality, an indescribable something that sucked you in, from the moment you looked into her eyes. Jess hated that Judith could never see just what she meant when she tried to explain—photos never captured it, too still and too devoid of that special _Judith_ spark that took the thought out of every breath and stirred the mind with a feeling of free-fall.

But the empathy in Judith's eyes hadn't been the look of a beautiful creature recognizing another—it had been something deeper, something on a soulful level, as if she'd somehow accidentally left her heart open and Judith had gotten a peek inside.

During their first few months of working together, Jess did have to admit that Judith was professional and completely "heteronormative" (Judith and her big sociological phrases, good grief), though there were moments when Jess would catch her off-guard, flashes in which she saw something more.

And when she'd finally chosen to pursue that something—oh, what a glorious feeling! After ages of pillaging hands and thoughtless lovers, the soft wonderment of Judith's fingertips felt like a chorus of heavenly hosts. Jess had never known that someone could touch her like that—with concern, with consideration for her own feelings, her own wants and needs. It had been as if a great book of knowledge had been opened to her, a new universe discovered, a new Garden of Eden given unto her and her alone.

Well, a Garden of Judith Eden, anyways.

Jess smirked at that last thought, blindly reaching downward to run her fingers through her garden's hair. Judith responded by nipping her inner thigh, eliciting a happy sigh from the thigh's owner.

Yes, once that book had been opened, Jess had found that Judith was anything but timid or reserved. And soft wonderment was quickly replaced with the one thing that Jess had never experienced before—need. Judith had sought out the corners of her body and soul with burning determination—she _needed_ Jess' tongue, her sighs, the taste of her skin and the arch of her neck, _needed_ the flurried oblivion of entangled limbs and panting breaths and joyous cries, _needed_ her at her purest, most distilled form, _needed_ to know her, to understand her, to love her.

It was an intoxicating feeling, being needed.

Perhaps that made Jessalyn bad, or sick, or at least grossly codependent. But she couldn't deny how wholesome and right it felt, and Judith never seemed capable of any other response (_I'm all or nothing, babe_, she'd once told Jess, in her usual dry manner, but there had been truth in the quip), so they'd continued down this path with little disruption for almost three years now.

Which led them here, to this hotel room in Dumfries, Virginia, setting alarms on their phones so that one could sneak down the hall and back into her own room.

Honestly, she should already be back in her own bed right now, but she'd never been much good at holding up against Judith's persistence (honestly, she never really wanted to resist such consuming passion), and besides, a few more minutes wouldn't change anything.

That last thought triggered something in Jessalyn's brain.

"Wait," she sat up suddenly, inadvertently pushing Judith's head away from her thighs.

"What is it?" Judith's face was skewed in confusion (by all accounts and reactions, Jess had seemed to be enjoying this moment quite thoroughly).

"The boy—the courier," Jess was on her feet, going back across the carpet before remembering that she wasn't in her own room, where her notepad had been tossed atop the desk. She ran her fingers through her blonde bobbed hair in frustration as she tried to recall the details, "He—someone said it wasn't his usual delivery time. He was early, or late, or…something."

Judith gave a light sigh. "Really, Jess? _This_ is what you think about when my tongue is—"

"Wait, wait, I remember," the younger woman held up a hand to silence her slightly-miffed lover. "Schuyler Adams wasn't supposed to deliver the mail until afternoon. He usually had class in the mornings."

"So?" Judith's tone was challenging, but her expression was one of curiosity. She rose to her feet, taking a small step towards Jess.

"So, he was early—_hours_ early. Spring break or cancelled class or something like that had his schedule thrown off."

"What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?" Judith set her hands on her bare hips, cocking her head to one side.

"Don't you get it?" Jess looked up, eyes afire. "Whoever sent the bomb didn't expect it to be delivered for several more hours—if it was an inside man—"

"Or woman—"

"Then he or she expected to have more time," Jess finished.

"I understand this concept, really I do," her lover's tone was flat, almost incredulous. "But my darling dearest, what in hell does that mean?"

Jess gave a breathless flash of a grin. "It means we've got our guy. And David Rossi is off the hook."

* * *

"_By the pricking of my thumbs,__  
__Something wicked this way comes."__  
__~William Shakespeare__._


	34. Little Lies We Tell

**Little Lies We Tell**

"_Sometimes it's best to hide in plain sight."__  
__~David Estes__._

* * *

_***Author's Note: I'm still catching up on replies to pms and reviews-thanks to everyone for continued patience and for all the awesome reviews/follows/adds/etc so far! We've only got a few more chapters to go on this ride, so hang on tight!**_

* * *

_**Harry's Diner. Dumfries, Virginia.**_

"Wait, so what does that mean, exactly?" Jack Dawson held out his hand in questioning—an action that seemed less austere due to the french fry dangling from his fingertips (Judith had already berated him from his breakfast choice—_fries, really, Jack, what are you, a college student?_).

Jessalyn Keller pushed her glasses up her nose again, leaning forward as she inspected her notepad, "According to both of the mail clerks' statements—"

"No, no, I gotcha on that part," Jack waved away the explanation. "Skip to the part where it rules out David Rossi."

Jess blinked, as if surprised that the answer wasn't completely obvious. "Well, it's simple, really—if you were going to blow up the building, wouldn't you at least _try_ not to be in the area of the bomb when it went off?"

"Well, yeah—but we've already established that there was no way for our UNSUB to know," Jack reminded her.

"But he would have a basic time-frame," Jess pushed back. She tapped her notepad with her index finger, as if emphasizing her point. "Mail was delivered in the afternoon, every day—yesterday was the only exception. So if you knew the bomb would explode when handled, and you knew that it wouldn't be handled til mid-afternoon—"

"Then you would have some idea of when to not be around," Sura Roza finished, giving a curt nod of understanding. She was currently tucked into the corner of the booth, on Jack's left side—Jess was directly across the table from her, and the blonde spared a quick smile of gratitude for seeing her point.

"So…what?" Jonas Shostakovich looked up from his eggs benedict for the first time. He'd commandeered a chair, which he'd set at the end of the booth (_oh, honey, you can stay in my way as much as you want_, the waitress had flirtily informed him, and they'd all had a good laugh about that when she'd left). "You're saying that the fact that Rossi wasn't there when the bomb went off is no longer in play here?"

"Pretty much, yeah." Keller nodded.

"OK," Jonas shrugged easily, surprising most of the people at the table. He looked up, noting their expressions, "What? That was a major point against him—if it doesn't fit, it doesn't fit. Now he's basically got equal ranking with Agent Hotchner on the suspect list. I'm not saying he's not guilty, I'm just saying he looks a little _less_ guilty."

Judith Eden sat back in the booth, folding her arms over her chest to give him a long look down the length of her nose before she quietly intoned, "Someone woke up on the forgiving side of the bed this morning."

"And what side did you wake up on, Jude?" His question was quick, pointed—and whatever it implied, it certainly hit the mark, because the Englishwoman blinked as if she'd been slapped in the face.

Under the table, Sura Roza nudged Jack's side (_I told you I told you I told you something's up between them_).

They were too busy watching Jude and Jonas to notice Jess, who gently reached under the table to lightly press the back of her left hand against Jude's outer right thigh (_let it go, Jude, let it go_).

From his vantage point, Jonas didn't actually _see_ Jessalyn touching Judith, but he saw the shift in her shoulder as her hand moved, saw how she kept her attention on her berry-topped steel-cut oats as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world.

Damn, they were good.

"Look, I'd prefer not to start this day off on the wrong note," Jack Dawson broke the tension with a weary tone. "So if you two are going to spend the day bickering, for the love of god, just go out into the parking lot and have a brawl—get it out of your systems now so that the rest of us don't have to spend the day playing emotional dodgeball between you."

Jonas looked chagrined and Judith simply laughed.

"We'll be fine, Jackie boy," she assured him, giving a deep, genuine smile as she reached over to pat Jonas' upper arm. "Now that Vichie's come back from the dark side, we'll get on like lambs."

"What's your take on this?" Jack zeroed in on Judith again, in a different manner. "You're the most pro-Rossi at this table, yet you haven't said a word about this new development."

She appeared slightly flummoxed at the query, though he knew it was mostly for show, "Considering that I've always maintained the man's innocence, I see no reason to be particularly shocked by this revelation, or even particularly gleeful—the truth will out, as they say, so I've never doubted that he'd be proven innocent. Besides, Mummy always said it was bad form to gloat."

The last line was dripping in a heightened English accent, which everyone knew was for comedic effect—Judith gave a light toss of her hair to emphasize her satisfied superiority. Jonas merely rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he returned to his breakfast.

"We need to figure out who this Maeve is," Jonas announced, to no one in particular. "Then we might have three suspects on equal footing."

Dawson turned back to Keller, "So your line of reasoning lets one suspect off the hook—any way we can turn it around to _find_ a suspect?"

Now she looked apologetic, "Maybe? Maybe not."

Sura gave two quick taps on the tabletop, as if calling attention to herself, "We could look at people who called in sick for the day—that's an easy excuse to not be in the building—"

Dawson nodded in agreement. "But wouldn't that look _too_ guilty?"

"So…someone who was there in the morning, to cover his ass, but who planned to be away during the actual blast?" Jonas looked up again, face skewed in confusion. "How do you tell what someone was planning to do, though? I mean, if we go back, interview people and ask 'where did you plan to be at 2pm yesterday afternoon?', I'm pretty sure most won't be able to accurately answer, and our UNSUB will be smart enough not to say 'Oh, well, I was gonna take a late lunch to avoid being blown up by the bomb I planted in the mail.'"

Judith hummed in agreement—her mouth was full, so she simply pointed her fork at him, silently decreeing, _I'm with this guy_.

"So, we're back at square one." Dawson announced, sinking back in the pleather booth. He glanced up at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. Quietly, he admitted, "We really need something to turn this whole case around."

"We'll find it," Sura assured him, popping another forkful of french toast into her mouth. Taking a moment to chew, she added, "C'mon, you haven't even finished your first cup of coffee for the day. Give it time, Jack."

"Time is a luxury we can't afford," he informed her, though he did return to his coffee with renewed interest.

"Look, we'll figure out who this Maeve is, and I'll go back over the list of people who called in sick—"

"Wait," Keller bolted upright. She looked over at Sura, eyes shining with a sudden epiphany. "Look and see who doesn't show up today."

"What?" Judith shifted slightly, turning her full attention to the younger woman seated next to her. "So…our guy shows up yesterday, gets questioned, realizes that the net's getting closer—"

"And skips town the second he's allowed to leave Quantico," Jonas finished, his voice heavy with knowing.

"God, we sent dozens of people home," Sura's eyes were the size of saucers. "I mean, I don't know if anyone was actually detained—there were a few last interviews still going on by the time we left last night, but I just seriously doubt that O'Donnell kept anyone overnight."

"It may actually be a point in our favor," Jack mused. "I mean, if we find a runner, we've all but got our guy."

"Fingers crossed he didn't already have a ticket to Timbuktu stashed away," Jude intoned somberly.

Jack Dawson was moving to exit the booth—Sura Roza reached out to gently stop him.

"Jack, let's finish our breakfast. If our guy's flown the coop, five extra minutes isn't going to change anything now."

"I suppose you're right," he conceded, slipping back to his plate again.

Jude was grinning at her team leader now. "Look at him—excited as a kid on Christmas morning."

"Well, ya gotta admit—if the theory's right, it could be one helluva present," Jonas drawled, glancing up from his breakfast with a slight smile of amusement.

Jude hummed in agreement. "Amen to that."

* * *

_**Derek &amp; Savannah's House. Washington, D.C.**_

All in all, the light touch of someone gently kissing their way up your spine was not a bad way to wake up. Derek Morgan gave a hum of appreciation at his girlfriend's efforts, smiling sleepily as he simply allowed her to continue.

"Hey, stranger," she teased, once she was sure that he was fully awake (she'd only started touching him because he'd been shifting around, signaling that he was slowly returning to the waking world).

"Hey, yourself," he returned warmly, still not turning over.

"How ya feeling?" She kept her tone playful, but she held her breath as she waited for his reply.

"Right now? Pretty damn good." He reached out blindly for her, giving her hip an affectionately grateful rub.

"That's what I like to hear," she grinned again. She sat up fully, pulling the warmth of her own body away (at which he gave a slight groan of protest). "C'mon. My shift starts in an hour—let's do breakfast together, like normal people."

He gave another groan, but he was pushing himself up, following her lead by slipping on a t-shirt. She offered one last kiss before padding barefoot down the hallway. She was already in her scrub bottoms and a tank—a sure sign that a good-morning rumble in the sack wasn't happening. Not that Derek felt up to much at this point anyways—he was pretty sure he'd only slept about four hours last night, and his body needed way more than that to recover the stress and strain of the previous' days antics.

By the time he'd made it into the kitchen, Savannah had already brewed the coffee and had his mug ready. The granola and yogurt were already out, with some blueberries that she must have picked up the night before.

However, Savannah's earlier playfulness had vanished—she was frowning slightly as she handed his cellphone to him. "I'm sorry, I just grabbed it, thinking it was mine—I think something must've happened, because you've got a ton of texts."

_A ton_ was actually six—one from each of his sisters (_Please tell me you're alright_ from Sarah, and _You dead, bro?_ from Desi), one from a contractor on his latest renovation project which he completely ignored, one from Will LaMontagne, and two from Penelope.

He skipped Will's, checking Penelope's instead.

_It's been a rough night. Meet up for coffee at Brew-Ha-Ha?_

There was so much more that she wasn't saying. Babygirl loved her daily java fix, but if she was asking for a pre-work meet-up, it meant that she had some serious baggage to unload.

However, her next text sent a chill down his spine. It was sent several hours later.

_Did Will text you?_

Oh god.

He went to the text from Will.

_JJ in surgery again—Doc says bleeding on the brain. She should be done around 8am. I'll be at hospital then. Will keep everyone posted._

He must have made some kind of noise at the news, because Savannah perked up again, her face filing with concern. "Babe? What's wrong?"

"JJ," he felt a wave of slight panic rolling through his chest. "She—Will says that she had some kind of bleeding on the brain?"

He looked up, silently asking for some kind of medical confirmation.

She felt helpless, but she gave a shrug, "Yeah, I mean—if JJ's injuries are as traumatic as they seem, it's totally possible that her head injury caused something like that."

"They had to take her back into surgery, apparently sometime last night."

"Probably to relieve the pressure from the build-up of fluids. And to stop the bleeding, if they can." She hated herself for adding those last three words, but she'd learned long ago not to instill false hope. It was best to add as many modifiers as possible—people were often so desperate for a good outcome that they misconstrued things, clung to words and gave them deeper meaning than they really had.

"This surgeon friend of yours—she's the best, right?" The worry in her lover's face was so disconcerting that she felt a sudden urge to walk over and hold him (though she tamped it down, because she felt he wouldn't like feeling weak and helpless in a moment like this).

"Of course." Her voice was quiet, gentle, reassuring. "Candy Mellinger is one of the best surgeons in the country, let alone D.C. Every other doctor in this city would have recommended her as the specialist to send JJ to, I promise. She's in good hands."

He gave a slow, small nod, wanting so desperately to find some kind of comfort in her words, yet feeling nothing but emptiness.

After a beat, he cleared his throat, spoke again, "I'm…I have to go, hon. I wanna stop in, see Will and hopefully JJ, too, if they let me."

"Of course." She fought back the urge to tell him that he probably wouldn't see his teammate, and that there wasn't anything he could do to ease Will's suffering—that was her lover, a man who did the noble thing, no matter how pointless it seemed. Briefly, she realized that her job had made her much more jaded than he could ever hope to be, a thought both amusing and strange, given how much darker his field of work tended to be.

He was dressed and out the door in record time.

The normal people breakfast was long forgotten. Savannah shook her head with a wry smile, _That's what you get for thinking that you could be like a normal couple, even for one morning._

* * *

_**Ninth Floor, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Rowena Lewis gave a heavy sigh as she sank down into a crouch—the day had just begun, and she was already dreading every second of it. She was in good physical shape, but her knees didn't exactly sing at the thought of spending another twelve to sixteen hours crawling around in debris with a pair of tweezers.

"The BAU still hasn't arrived," Macaraeg announced to no one in particular as she entered the containment zone, pulling the ties of her forensic hood tight so that her own hair wouldn't contaminate the scene. She slipped on her magnifying glasses and donned her gloves before joining Rowena in what used to be a small office.

Rowena merely hummed in slight interest at the news.

"Since when did you start keeping tabs on the BAU?" Masterson asked, merely curious. He had the camera out, snapping photos of the room before they began processing it.

"It's not keeping tabs, per se," Mac shrugged, her tone neutral and unaffected. "Just…an observation."

"Uh-huh," Masterson didn't sound entirely convinced.

Mac glanced up at him, as if gauging his reaction. He noticed, taking a moment to return her scrutiny.

"So…ya gonna take the day off tomorrow?" He changed the subject easily.

"That's not really even a question, is it?" Mac returned easily.

"I guess not."

She smiled, trying to soften the edge, "I'm still trying to work out the details. But I will definitely be in Madison for Emma's graduation. I trust you two can hold down the fort while I'm out."

"Absolutely," Jeff assured her. "Hell, we'll even cover for you with Impastoli, if we need to."

She grinned wryly at that, arching her brow, "Casey knows I'm doing it. Besides, I think we've had enough skirting around authority and protocol for one case."

That was jokingly directed at Rowena's slip-up the day before. Agent Lewis merely smiled in response.

"Y'Okay?" Mac asked, her voice dipping lower into a tone of concern.

"I'm not a morning person," Rowena confessed.

"Ah, I see. So it's not because you're upset over anything?"

"Nope."

"But if you were, you'd say something, wouldn't you?"

"Of course."

"Good," Mac gave a curt nod, returning her attention to the task at hand. She was gingerly moving chunks of plaster and ceiling tile and setting them in a trash bin. "Because I want you both to feel like you can trust me—and you can talk to me, point-blank, about anything. If I say or do something that bothers you, speak up. I think by now you can both see I'm no delicate flower—I can handle criticism, and I'm much rather prefer it than to have crossed wires and hurt feelings."

"Understood," Jeff informed her, and Rowena nodded in agreement. Silence fell over the three agents, but at least it wasn't awkward or strained.

"It does seem odd that the BAU isn't already here," Jeff commented, picking up the earlier thread of conversation. "They're usually some of the first ones back on the scene."

Again, Rowena Lewis hummed in agreement. She didn't have to ask what Jeff was thinking—she'd heard the concern in his voice, and she knew, because she felt it, too.

It would have to be something very big to keep the BAU from already being here. It didn't seem like a good sign. She hoped she was wrong.

* * *

_**Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

In a scene that he'd re-enacted way too many times, Derek Morgan found himself pushing his legs double-time down the hall, all but sprinting into the waiting room, where he could already see the rest of his team assembled.

Hotch turned to see him as he walked in—Will and Penelope were quietly conferring with the unit chief, and all three looked rather worse for wear. Rossi and Reid were seated in the corner, both looking as if they might actually still be asleep (though in reality, Morgan knew their vacant stares were merely their way of trying to process everything).

"Where's Henry?" Morgan glanced around, concerned.

"He's back at home with JJ's mama," Will answered, scrubbing the side of his unshaven face with a tired hand. "I thought—it's probably best if I go in first, alone—you know, to see how she's doing…"

He didn't finish the thought, merely looking down at the ground with a heavy sigh. Penelope's arm was around him in a flash, giving him a comforting squeeze.

"Is there anything we can do, anything at all?" Hotch's voice was gentle, lined with heartbroken compassion.

"Not that I know of," Will looked up again, giving a slight shake of his head. Matt Cruz had already been here, though he'd already left for Quantico—and like Hotch, he'd asked the same thing. It was comforting and overwhelming, knowing so many people were ready to help at a moment's notice. "Just—having you all here, it means a lot. I know JJ thinks of y'all as family, and knowing the feeling's mutual…well, it's good to know."

Penelope made a small noise of understanding. She was rubbing his back in small circles, trying to infuse any kind of reassurance that she could.

"When will she be allowed to see people?" Morgan asked, setting his hands on his hips.

Another shrug from Will, "Doc says it depends on how quickly she wakes up from the anesthesia, and how she seems when she is awake. They took her back into recovery a little over an hour ago—so far, she seems to be doing OK, the nurses say."

Suddenly Will turned to Morgan with the air of a man who's just remembered something, "By the way, I owe a debt of gratitude to your girlfriend, Savannah—apparently, she's good friends with Dr. Mellinger, and she made them all promise to go 'above and beyond', they told me. I can't tell you how much that's helped."

Morgan was slightly taken aback by the news—it sounded just like something Savannah would do and she'd even offered to talk to Dr. Mellinger yesterday, but he hadn't expected it to be this big of a professional pull and to top it off, she hadn't even mentioned it this morning. Though, honestly, she really hadn't had the time to mention it. He'd been out the door as soon as he'd gotten the text about JJ.

He needed to call her. For many reasons.

Will glanced back at Hotch again, "I know you've still got a job to do, but I do appreciate y'all coming down here—even if JJ can't see you just yet, I know that hearing you were here will still mean a lot to her."

Hotch nodded in agreement, reaching out to offer one last pat on the arm as he looked at Penelope, "You'll be staying, won't you?"

"Of course, sir." Penelope looked surprised that he even had to ask.

Hotch quietly guided Morgan away from the others, gently intoning, "Don't get upset, but—"

"But what?" Morgan felt his blood pressure immediately skyrocket.

"Apparently JJ suffered her seizure while she was being questioned by the Flying J's."

"What?" Morgan's entire body stiffened, and he turned slightly, as if he were looking for the people responsible for putting his team mate in further danger.

"Don't overreact," Hotch kept his tone low, but there was enough weight to give a sense of warning to his words.

"Hotch, these people think we're guilty as hell, and now they're putting our own in danger—"

"You and I both know that JJ's condition wasn't caused by them. They might have exacerbated it, but the doctors have said that she would've suffered seizures eventually—"

"So, what? You want me to be all smiles and hearts when we see them in the briefing room?"

"I want you to do your job, without personal bias." The words had bite, and Morgan didn't miss the stern reprimand in his boss' tone.

Morgan glanced down at the ground, letting out a heavy breath.

"I didn't want you to be blindsided, in case this came up in conversation later today," Hotch informed him.

Morgan nodded. "Thank you."

"Of course," came the simple reply. If anyone knew firsthand just how deeply Derek Morgan's trust issues ran, it was Aaron Hotchner—and even now, when the world was collapsing around them, he took the time to make sure that Morgan never felt lied to or otherwise left out of the loop.

Morgan glanced back to the waiting room, to his little rag-tag family, all tired and drawn and burdened with their mutually shared life.

There was a beat of silence as Hotch stood beside him, surveying the room as well. He quietly announced, "I've told Prentiss. About the latest development with JJ."

Morgan arched his brow in surprise (_so Hotch has been chatting with Prentiss, huh?_), "How'd she take that?"

Hotch made a small noise, something between amusement and sympathy. "I wouldn't be surprised if she's already on a flight to D.C."

Morgan smiled in agreement—he could see Emily's eyes as wide as saucers with worry even now. When she'd first shown up at the BAU, he'd gotten the very distinct _lone wolf_ feeling from her—but like all wolves, she'd really wanted to be part of a pack, and she'd finally found that in the BAU. Although she wasn't physically with them anymore, the tie had never been truly severed. She was still one of them—and when a member of her pack was in trouble, Emily Prentiss would fight tooth and nail to save them, no matter the distance or the silliness of job titles and protocols.

Speaking of taking care of fellow pack members—Morgan disengaged from Hotch, "I need to talk to Penelope for a moment."

Hotch merely nodded.

Penelope was still at Will's side, but she wasn't holding him anymore—mainly because Will was stepping forward to greet Dr. Mellinger.

Candace Mellinger's eyes were wide with surprise as she glanced around the waiting room at the number of people assembled for Jennifer Jareau. "Um, I'm sorry, Mr. LaMontagne—but I don't think—Jennifer might be a bit overwhelmed by all the company—"

"We can wait," Penelope assured her quickly.

Dr. Mellinger gave a slight nod of relief. Then she resumed a more reserved air, "Well, you'll all be glad to know that Jennifer did wonderfully. No complications, no unforeseen issues—as far as brain surgery goes, hers was a walk in the park. She's a very lucky lady. She seems to be responding well, but she's still a little foggy from the anesthesia. It's quite possible that she won't remember a lot of what's happened in the past few days—even events that happened before the trauma, things that she might have even remembered yesterday. I cannot stress enough just how much trauma her brain has endured over the last twenty-four hours—so remember that, and be kind, be patient, and for god's sake, be calm when you're around her. It's best not to ask questions or prompt her in any way. Our main goal right now is to keep her on an even keel, emotionally and physically. Everybody got that?"

Everyone nodded in understanding. The doctor gave a bright smile, "Good. Now you guys have to wait here while Mr. LaMontagne and I go see how she's doing."

With one last smile of bravado, Will gave a small wave to the others as he followed the doctor back into the ICU.

"She's gonna be just fine," David Rossi announced, to no one in particular. Penelope hummed in agreement. Spencer Reid wondered if that was a statement of fact or a mere prayer of hope. Hotch, who'd returned for the doctor's pronouncement, went back into the hallway, phone in hand.

There was a rapid staccato of boots on linoleum, and Kate Callahan appeared, breathless and worried, "I got here as soon as I could—what's the word?"

Rossi and Reid began filling her in, Rossi reaching out to give her a reassuring rub on the arm. Morgan took the moment to shift closer to Garcia, gently touching her elbow to get her attention.

"Hey, Babygirl," he guided her further away from the others, into some semblance of privacy. "Let's take a minute to talk about that cryptic SOS you sent me this morning."

"What? Oh," she suddenly remembered. "Yeah, that—you know, it's not important, not right now."

"Not important? Penelope Garcia, you've never sent out a false alarm."

"Derek, it's just…" she sighed, looked away, shook her head, then turned back with a smile. "First time for everything, mi amore. It's really not important—we should just focus on JJ."

"Are you sure?" He asked, each word weighted and enunciated.

"Of course," she tried to smile, failed in a way that almost broke his heart.

"Look, I'm gonna let you slide for now." He pointed a finger at her in semi-serious accusation, "But you best believe that the second we know JJ's out of the woods, I'm coming back to this. I don't like seeing my favorite girl without her million-dollar smile—I need it like the earth needs the sun, and I won't let it stay gone for too long."

She wrapped him into a deep hug. When she pulled away, she was smiling again—truly, brightly, in the way that set the world just a little bit closer to right.

"There it is," he was smiling, too, now—softly, though he was certain his concern was still showing underneath. "Now I can face whatever the world throws my way today."

"You're too good to me sometimes, ya know that?" She gave another crooked grin, the one that always reminded him of a lead in some black-and-white 1950s film—a firecracker bombshell with the eyes of a soulful siren and wit like a razor.

"Absolutely not." He informed her. "I'm like that karma you love so much—I give you exactly what you deserve."

She laughed at this, giving him a playful pat on the chest.

"But, really, you're OK?"

She sobered at the question, giving a small nod. "I'm…it's all going to be alright. I really just don't want to focus on anything but JJ and catching this creep right now."

"But as soon as it's over—"

"Chocolate therapy, for sure."

"It's a date, Dollface." He offered his most winning suave smile—only to be surprised at the brief flash of hurt in her eyes.

However, she recovered quickly, offering a smile of her own. "Count on it, Hot Stuff."

This time, it didn't reach her eyes.

* * *

"_The story you choose to tell isn't always the story you believe."__  
~__Nova Ren Suma._


	35. Scratch the Surface

**Scratch the Surface**

"_I've got some issues that nobody can see  
And all of these emotions are pouring outta me  
I bring them to the light for you  
It's only right….__  
I try to think about myself as a sacrifice."_

_~Kid Cudi._

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"I know this isn't part of the briefing, but how is Agent Jareau?" SSA Judith Eden's face was lined with a mixture of fear and concern. The BAU team hadn't even fully gotten into the briefing room yet—O'Donnell, Macaraeg, Cruz, and the rest of the Flying J's were already there, waiting to begin.

"Her doctor claims that she's stable again," Agent Hotchner offered, his face still impassive. Morgan remembered his earlier request and tamped down the immediate desire to add _No thanks to you_.

"Good," Jack Dawson gave a curt nod, and Judith Eden hummed in agreement. She was lightly clutching her forehead with the tips of her fingers, as if she had a headache.

"She's got a long road ahead of her, and our thoughts are with Agent Jareau's family as well," O'Donnell offered diplomatically, though not unkindly.

"What about the other two men who were in the elevator with her?" Mateo Cruz spoke up, slightly chagrined that he hadn't thought to ask sooner (JJ had been his only concern, and he knew how that looked, how emotionally compromised that made him).

O'Donnell gave a heavy sigh, "Frank Vicelli, a military police on loan to us, survived and is in stable condition. Few fractured ribs, broken wrist. The other man, SA Lloyd Winston, was dead upon impact."

"Upon impact?" Cruz's brow furrowed in slight confusion. "It was only like a thirty or forty foot drop."

Spencer Reid piped up, "Few people survive falls over fifty to sixty feet. It depends on velocity, angle—there are numerous factors to consider."

"It wasn't the fall that killed him, exactly," Scott O'Donnell admitted, grimacing slightly. "The crucifix he was wearing hit the ground first and he landed on it—it severed the jugular and he bled out before rescue workers could open the elevator."

"Further proof that religion kills," Judith pronounced, sotto voce. Rossi had noticed that during the description of Lloyd Winston's death, her hand had involuntarily shot to her neck, as if she'd been stabbed herself. Even now, she made a slight grimace as she swallowed. However, she assumed an air of nonchalance as she smiled brightly at the rest of the room, "Well, now that we've gotten the fun stuff out of the way, perhaps we can focus on the case?"

The look that Derek Morgan gave her could have killed a person. "This _is_ the case, Agent Eden."

"I think Jude's referring to the parts that we can actually help with," Dawson returned gently, taking a quick look at his team member, who gave a small grateful smile. "No disrespect intended, but the sooner we catch this bastard, the sooner we can focus on the people who deserve our attention."

Kate Callahan glanced up at Morgan, her own expression one of angry confusion (_what's this woman's problem?_). Morgan merely looked away, giving a slight shake of his head. He had very little respect for Eden at the moment, due to her flippant behavior, but that was personal—and he'd promised Hotch to remain professional.

Judith Eden noticed the silent exchange, ducking her head as she wrapped her arms across her chest in a protective fashion and resituated herself to a stronger stance. On either side, she felt Keller and Vichie shifting closer to her, as if offering silent support. It was a small act, but one that meant more to her than she could express.

"Valid point," O'Donnell kept his voice calm, trying to dispel the tension in the room. "Let's get everybody up to speed on the hunt for our UNSUB."

* * *

_**The Washington Daily Editorial Offices. Washington, D.C.**_

Linnea Donovan Charles knew trouble was afoot the second she entered the bullpen. Everyone suddenly became unbelievably busy, so engrossed in their computers or phones or papers that they couldn't even look up or offer a requisite good morning greeting.

Everyone except Karl Miramontz. He swiveled his chair towards her, the look on his face not exactly confidence-inspiring. He opened his mouth to speak, but another voice interrupted.

"Charles! My office—now!"

Linnea kept her focus on Karl. He gave a slight shake of his head.

_He knows._

Damn. Not a good way to start the day.

Karl suddenly swiveled his chair back around, turning his attention to his work with surprising vigor. Linnea took a deep breath, tucked her head and headed into the editor's office.

Milford Miles was the epitome of every old-school hard-ass editor from every stereotypical reporter story ever. He was a mountain of a man—going flabby but not particularly paunchy, still muscular, large ham-fists with broad shoulders and a few liver spots that testified to his days as a hard-hitting and harder-drinking journalist in his own right, hair that was still surprisingly dark despite his age, a high forehead with a slick comb-over that actually didn't look ridiculous or take away from his austerity in the least.

He was one of the only people Linnea knew who still wore suspenders and wasn't a lumbersexual hipster. It was early in the morning, yet his suit jacket was already discarded in an unceremonious heap in a nearby chair and his sleeves were rolled up. He looked like he was halfway through an apoplectic fit.

Still, despite his furious appearance, despite his glaring eyes and clenched jaw and the vein doing the riverdance on his forehead, he kept his voice perfectly calm, as if he were commenting on the weather.

"Charles. How are you this morning?"

"I'm well, sir," Linnea wasn't sure what the game was, but she'd play along.

"Good to hear it. Didja sleep well?"

"I—um, excuse me?"

"I mean, after you sold out your own damn story to every other damn reporter in this damn city—did you sleep like a damn baby?"

"You wanna try to fit the word damn into that sentence one more time, sir?" Linnea Charles gave an unimpressed arch of her brow, crossing her arms over her chest. Milford knew she was nearly trembling with fear, he could practically see it pouring off her in waves, and yet he had to admire her attempt at bravado.

"Stop being a smartass and answer the _damn_ question."

"Sir, I didn't sell out the story—"

"Look, I get that you're used to the hustle and bustle of New York City, and maybe they play the game differently up there. But this is D.C. We don't share, and we don't play unless it's to win. We're the eighth most-read political publication in the city. Do you know how many dailies there are here?"

"Eight, sir—"

"_Eight _daily publications. Eight. And we're eighth. Dead last."

"Yes, sir."

"And you get the chance of a lifetime—the kind of story that puts newspapers in the running, that put reporters on the nomination list for goddamn Pulitzers! And what do you do—"

"I go after it," she punched in before he could throw out that accusation again. "I left. I went straight to the story, hoping to get there first. Because I _am_ used to the hustle and bustle of New York City, as you put it, and I know what happens if you're the last on the scene. I didn't have time to alert anyone else—nor would I have! That's not how I play, either."

There was a quick, urgent knock on the door.

"Come in!" Milford bellowed, though his tone implied that he wanted the person on the other side to do the exact opposite.

"Sir," Karl Miramontz's face appeared, worried and energetic at the same time. "Sir, I think….I have the answer."

"Ya think or ya know?"

"Know, sir." Miramontz fully entered the room, closing the door behind him (not that it mattered—the windows to Milford's office was open, the walls were paper-thin, and he hadn't made any attempt to be quiet, so everyone in the suite had been able to witness the whole exchange). He hurried to Milford's desk, laptop in hand. Linnea got up and followed him around, so that she could see whatever he was about to show their editor.

"Look, sir—here's the accountability app check-ins. Lin put in her assignment, and her GPS shows her well out of the office by then. But if we go over here," Karl clicked on another program. "The email alerting everyone else, forwarding the original from the FBI, was sent after she left. Which got me to thinking—"

"Who would do such a thing?" Milford finished quietly. His anger had subsided, being overridden by confusion and curiosity (there was a story here, and he was nothing if not a hound for a good mystery).

"Well, I accessed our security footage—"

"I won't even ask how you got ahold of that," his boss informed him dryly.

"No, sir, it's probably best if you don't," Karl admitted easily, his focus still on his laptop. He switched to another program. "Well, there's not a clear shot of Linnea's desk, but you can see—here she goes, out the door. And…if we fast-forward about twenty-three minutes…here we go."

Someone else walked past the camera.

"Is that…Desi?" Linnea asked, almost unwilling to say the name aloud. Desiree Estes hadn't liked Linnea from the moment she'd arrived at the Washington Daily, though Linnea hadn't ever been able to figure out why.

"Yep," Milford said tiredly, already seeing how this was going to play out.

"Sir, Lin's desk in in the corner," Karl nodded in the general direction, as if reminding his boss. "There's nothing over there but her desk and Nate's."

"Would Estes have any reason to be over there?" Milford didn't seem too hopeful.

"No—at least not at my desk," Linnea shook her head. "I mean, we're not working on anything together—and Nate's been on medical leave for two weeks now with his knee. There shouldn't be anything on his desk that she needed, either."

In less than two minutes, Desi sashayed past the cameras again.

"This is exactly thirty seconds after the email was time-stamped as being sent," Karl informed them.

"Oh my god," Linnea's eyes went wide. "I was in such a rush—I didn't shut down my computer. Anyone could have stopped by and read the email—"

"And seeing an opportunity to sabotage a fellow reporter, forwarded it to everyone else," Milford slumped back into his chair. "Dammit. I'm sorry I doubted you, Charles."

"Understandable, sir," Linnea admitted quietly, her tone implying her forgiveness. "Especially given how implausible the alternative sounds."

"Tell me about it," he sighed again. He'd been up for a good row, for busting his reporter's ass for stupidity, but god, he hadn't been up for firing another reporter for being unable to get past petty jealousy. He pushed the thought aside for now, shifting his chair slightly to look up at Charles, "And where are you on the story itself?"

She gave a slight moue of dissatisfaction. "I've hit a speed bump."

"But you're handling it?"

"Yes, sir. I'm handling it."

* * *

_**Strauss House. Vienna, Virginia.**_

Jordan Strauss had been staring at the wall for a solid fifteen minutes now—when she allowed her gaze to focus again, she saw her own reflection in the glass covering her mother's college degrees.

Of all the rooms in her mother's old house, Erin's study was the one that hurt the least. It held so much of her mother—the books, the boxes of old photographs on the bottom shelves of the bookcase, the degrees and plaques with Erin's name on them, even the orchid in the windowsill—yet it was still detached enough to somehow remain objective, instead of feeling overrun with memories. Perhaps because before her mother's death, Jordan hadn't really been allowed in here, so there were no memories of the office, so to speak.

She turned back to her laptop, which was currently on her mother's desk.

Her mom had tracked down a fucking serial killer, a man who'd tried to hide behind smoke a mirrors—Jordan was simply looking for an ordinary journalist, someone who spent their time in the public eye. It had to be easier, right?

Of course, she hadn't been a crime analyst like her mother had, at the beginning of her Bureau career. She hadn't learned Erin's skills of mapping data, finding points of connection (one night, after Jordan was well into college and Erin felt she could handle it, Erin had tried to explain basic crime mapping to her daughter, and Jordan had understood, but she'd never had to apply that understanding).

Linnea. Journalist. D.C. That was all she had. Hopefully it was enough.

Opening her search engine, she simply typed _Linnea, Washington D.C._

The first few results seemed unlikely, but then she found a link to The Washington Daily Post's website. She clicked it, crossing her fingers.

Linnea's face smiled back at her in a photograph that was obviously from several years ago—her face had aged and her hair was a completely different cut and style now, but she was still unmistakably Linnea.

_Linnea Donovan Charles. Former correspondent for Times-Picayune, New York's Metroworld, and Life &amp; Times in the City. As the most recent addition to our political team, Charles is thrilled to…._

The biography went on, but Jordan's mind was already distracted. Something was nagging at the back of her mind.

So she went back to the original search, simply typing in _Linnea Donovan Charles_.

A plethora of articles, with Linnea on the byline. But that wasn't what Jordan wanted—she didn't want what Linnea had written, she wanted what had been written _about_ Linnea.

She was through the third page of results (holy jeez, this woman wrote a lot) when her phone buzzed.

_Hey, it's Linnea. I got your number from Marc, at group. I want to talk about last night. I'm sorry I upset you. Can we try coffee again?_

Jordan pressed her lips into a thin line. After a beat, she replied.

_Same place. What time?_

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

David Rossi wasn't the kind of man who let a question remained unanswered. He'd seen Judith's reactions to the news of the injured and dead agents, and he'd also seen Morgan and Callahan's reactions to her flippant replies. He could sense a powder keg brewing, and like Hotch, he wanted to avoid an explosion at all costs.

He knew Hotch had already spoken to Morgan (honestly, that was probably the only reason that Morgan hadn't laid into the woman), so the only other option was to find Agent Eden.

As soon as the briefing dispersed, Judith had slipped out of the room, her long legs helping her disappear from sight (even with the limp, she'd been able to put considerable distance between herself and everyone else leaving the room).

He knew the general direction she'd taken, and so he simply walked the halls, peering out doors and windows, trying to catch a glimpse of her.

As he turned down another hallway, he saw her through the glass of the double-doors at the other end. This time, he'd remembered his coat, and he was grateful for that—the day had been cold and gray so far, an angry promise of more winter to come.

He opened the door, glancing around as he closed it quietly behind him. Judith Eden was just a few feet away, her deep breaths filling the cool February air with white clouds as she leaned against one of the walkway columns. She gave a quick look over her shoulder, smiling slightly when she saw who it was.

"You're not a smoker," she commented dryly. It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact.

"Neither are you," he returned easily.

"Yes, but I was out here first." Her dark eyes twinkled mischievously, following him as he walked over, leaning against a pole that was about ten feet away from her own. "Which means _you_ followed _me_."

"Perhaps." He gave a light shrug.

"I guess you drew the short straw, then," her voice lost its playful edge as she turned her gaze back out at the wintry landscape.

"Short straw for what?"

She gave a dry smirk, "I think we both pride ourselves on being straight-shooters, Agent Rossi. So let's keep it that way—you came out here, because your whole team is wondering what the hell is wrong with me, and you're the one who got picked to ask the official question."

Rossi blinked in surprise—honestly, he couldn't deny most of that statement, but he felt the need to clarify, "Well, it's not like we had a meeting about it."

She laughed at this, ducking her head as her foot lazily kicked at the ground. She appreciated the honesty, and she liked that he'd tinged it with off-handed humor.

She looked up at him again, her eyes still bright with amusement, though they slowly muted into something more reserved, something still curious but equally hesitant as she quietly sized him up, as if she was considering answering his unspoken question. Finally, she asked, "In what way are you unsuited for this job, Agent Rossi?"

He looked at her in askance, unsure of her meaning.

"Oh, c'mon. Everyone always wonders how we are suited for this—but the truth is, there are parts of us that aren't. We aren't machines, built specifically for this line of work. It's true, we have certain…_traits_ that allow us to do the work, and over time, we continue to develop those mental tools. But what about the rest? Which part of your personality is the hardest to reconcile with the work you do, the horrors you see?" She leaned towards him slightly, her tone taking on a lightly mocking air, "Which demon screeches the loudest in protest?"

"I don't know," he answered truthfully. "I guess I've never really thought about it—like you said, we tend to focus on how we _are_ suited, not the ways we aren't."

She hummed in agreement. "Yes. Well, some of us have foibles that aren't so easy to ignore."

He simply waited, knowing that she was merely organizing her thoughts, looking for the best way to continue.

"In your line of work, you've heard of empaths, haven't you?" She quickly added, almost apologetically, "I don't mean to sound patronizing—it's just that until recently, not many people knew about them, so I'm always a bit unsure."

"I have," he assured her gently. "It's someone who has a high sensitivity to other people's moods and emotions."

"'Overly receptive to emotional stimuli'," her tone was slightly mocking, as if she found her own diagnosis ridiculous. "That's what the doctor called it, anyways. I was nine. My mother took me to a shrink—proper British lady that she was, she thought my general emotional response was highly unhealthy. At the time, I couldn't understand what was so unhealthy about it—wasn't that how everyone felt, all the time? That's the wonderful and heartbreaking thing about being a kid—you don't notice you're different until someone tells you."

She squinted, as if peering back into distant memories, "Even at a young age, I could enter and room and immediately tell the mood of every person in it. Sometimes their voice would lie, they'd force a smile and try to sound cheerful, but I could read everything else, and I knew. And then I would feel however they felt—scared, or angry, or…whatever. As I got older, sometimes it got scarier, being able to read people's true intentions."

She wrapped her arms around herself protectively, her eyes hazed with images of times and people past. David Rossi didn't want to know what she saw, in that moment, or the scary intentions she read in the faces of people long gone.

"You think it'd be a good trait to have, in a field like this," she snapped out of her reverie with a sardonic smile. "Nice trick, being able to just _know_ when someone was having you on."

"You say it's nice, but I get the feeling that it's not." Rossi stated simply—and honestly, it wouldn't take even a junior-level behavioral analyst to figure that out. Everything, from her body language to her actual tone, screeched the opposite of her words.

"Because it's not." Her face became drawn with sadness as she looked away, once again seeing things that weren't there. After a beat, she asked, "What do you see, when you look at a crime scene photograph? When they send you a picture, and it's the body of a little boy, face-down in some godforsaken wood, dirty and bloody and beaten?"

He took a deep breath, contemplating the question. "I see a light that's gone before it's time. I see tragedy. And then I see red. I see myself catching the sick bastard who did it."

She gave a hum of approval. Then, shifting almost uncomfortably, she quietly admitted, "I just see the boy. I see his little fingers, the dirt underneath his nails. I _feel_ the dirt under my own."

He noticed how her fingers reflexively fluttered, as if reacting to the sensations she'd described. She continued, her voice aching with a weary sadness, "I see the cuts on his knees and his hands, and my knees and my hands begin to ache. I see his wide-open eyes—one green, one blue—and my own heart pounds with the fear and adrenaline that his must have felt. And then I can't see anything else, because my eyes are full of tears and my entire being is focused on this poor boy's last moments."

Rossi felt a pang of sympathy—these details she'd given, down to the rare coloring of the boy's eyes, were too specific to be some hypothetical situation. "Who was he?"

"Tyler Harrison," she answered without hesitation, the heavy sorrow pushing her brows downward, making her eyes seem even darker and larger, like some mournful ghost. "He's just one of many—the latest, but not the last."

She shook her head gently, as if releasing the thought from her mind. "When I was a child, my best friend broke her arm. For weeks, my arm hurt as well. I'd wake up in the middle of the night, crying with pain—but nothing was wrong. My mum just told me that they were sympathy pains. She said it was because we were so close, my friend and me. But I started to realize that I felt them for everyone, for people I barely even knew."

Dave didn't respond. He understood that she was simply removing herself from the previous narrative of Tyler Harrison's murder.

Judith Eden turned to look at him again, her face etched with sadness as her voice tiredly continued, "Now imagine going through that, with every victim you encounter, with every crime scene photo you see. Imagine having your dreams influenced by those feelings, those horrid scenes. Imagine walking into a room and knowing exactly which one of your colleagues hates you, or which one thinks you're an idiot, or which one sees you as little more than the next dish on their list. Imagine hearing your partner say_ I'm_ _fine_, and knowing it's a lie, but being too afraid to pursue the truth. Imagine knowing when someone's lying, and wishing you didn't know. Imagine being able to mark the second that someone's mood changes, and then spending hours wondering why it changed at that exact moment, and what you did to cause it. Imagine knowing that someone is lying, and being unable to physically prove it, and wondering if it's all just in your head, if you're really just the batty little girl that your mother always thought you were. Imagine thinking that every single word has a different weight to it, that days of the weeks have feeling attached to them, that going to the super market or a baseball game can be a trial because you find yourself bombarded with everyone else's emotions and sensations. Imagine taking your nephew to the park and fighting down the urge to step up and keep children from being mean to one another, because the sheer injustice of it makes your skin crawl. Imagine that even though you work in a job that brings some of the most horrifying images into your world, you still can't watch a stupid show on the telly if it's too emotionally draining. Imagine all of that bouncing around your brain, every second of every day. It's maddening. Absolutely maddening."

Now David Rossi could never claim to be a man who focused entirely on other people's emotions. Yes, he could read human behavior and body language, but it was a skill—he could turn it off, almost at will, and there were times when it wasn't enough. There were times when he couldn't tell if someone was lying or what their true emotions were. The investigator in him said that it would be a gift, being able to tell what someone was thinking or when they were lying. However, the human in him said sometimes it was best not to know. And as for all the little things—things as simple as going grocery shopping or watching a television show—they were something he'd never consider as emotional landmines, yet they were a pressing part of Eden's reality, more taxing and confusing in a way that most people would never truly understand.

"It's not nearly as sod-all dramatic as I'm making it sound," Judith straightened her posture, giving a light shake of her head, as if she were slipping into her usual devil-may-care persona. "I've learned how to protect myself, over the years, but there's always a moment when you're caught unawares. If I hadn't built up certain defenses, I'd either be dead or insane."

"Like having a cheeky sense of humor," Rossi suddenly understood.

She gave a small, quiet nod, "Like having a cheeky sense of humor. It's my way of isolating myself, in a way. If I didn't make jokes about it, then I'd have to look at the situation—really, _really_ look at it—in a way that's completely overwhelming. I would cease to function."

With another wry smile, she added, "In other words, I picked the world's worst profession for someone of my temperament."

"I think we all have a little masochist inside of us," he informed her. "Otherwise we'd have all left this job a long time ago."

She glanced over at him again, amusement dancing at the corners of her eyes as she viewed him with a new sense of appreciation. "I suppose so."

"You said it wasn't all bad," Rossi reminded her, his curiosity getting the better of him. "In what ways is it good?"

"Christ, you sound like my shrink," she scoffed, rolling her eyes playfully. Then she became more subdued as she answered, "Well, like all things, there's a give and take. For example, if I can experience someone's pain, then I can equally experience their joy. It's wonderful, going to a party and meeting someone who's very passionate about a particular subject—it's absolutely invigorating, just listening to them talk about whatever it is that fascinates them."

With a sly look, she added, "Reading trashy romance novels is a pretty wonderful pastime, too."

Rossi laughed at this—now she was speaking his language.

She glanced away, as if she wasn't sure about sharing the next part, "And…and there's the added bonus of almost always knowing what someone's really thinking—or at least sensing what they're really feeling. It can stop a lot of misunderstandings before they can even really happen. It took me a long time to figure it out, but if I can be influenced by a person's mood, then I also know how to influence someone else's. It's…intuitive, almost. I know what to say or how to change my body language in a way that affects their reaction—oftentimes in ways that they don't even realize. A lot of us can do that with people we know deeply or intimately—think about a time when you wanted to start a row with your lover. You knew exactly what to say to set them off, right? The only difference is that I can generally do it with people whom I don't know very well at all."

She leaned forward conspiratorially again, "A power I try to use only for good, I promise."

"Must make you one hell of an interrogator," Rossi admitted with a small smile of appreciation.

Her grin deepened. "I did a good job of making you feel at-home the first time I interviewed you, didn't I?"

He couldn't deny that—Judith Eden had come across as a natural interviewer, making him feel as if they were simply two similar personalities who just clicked upon meeting one another.

"It's a pretty good skill to have, isn't it?" Her smile informed him that she already knew the answer. With a light shake of her head, she turned away, "If only the rest of the feelings didn't come with it."

Rossi contemplated her highly sensitive world—if someone had offered him the innate profiling skills that she obviously possessed, he'd jump at the chance. But if they had also stipulated that in addition to read people as easily as breathing, he'd have to experience not only the victim's pain, but also the pain of every person he ever encountered, he wasn't sure that he would agree to such a deal.

_We all have our crosses to bear_, his mother's voice echoed in his head. In the beginning of his career as a behavioral analyst, there had often been times when he'd loathed his ability to get inside the mind of these monsters, hating how easily he could connect to their impulses and their motivations. It was as if he had that same monster living in his head, and perhaps one day it would decide to break free and take control of the rest of him. But his mother had insisted that it was a gift, a weapon in the fight against evil. She'd told him that the horrible feelings was the price he paid for such a gift, and that as long as he continued to use it for good, his conscience would remain troubled but free of soul-crushing guilt. If he ever turned away from his gift, if he ever simply stopped using it, then guilt would follow him all the days of his life, and he'd never have a moment's peace.

He'd once told Aaron that he'd become addicted to the chase. In truth, he kept going because he feared whatever might be chasing him—some vengeful fury, determined to take its pound of flesh in return for his unused gift.

Being a highly sensitive person in a world that required a certain amount of desensitization was Judith Eden's cross. She bore it, and used her curse as a blessing, at least when she could. There was no shame in that, only respect.

So he did the only thing that he could do. He offered a line of hope.

"What can I do to make it easier for you?" He asked quietly. Her big brown eyes snapped to his, surprised and almost-fearful of this question. He reassured her, "I'm serious. What can I do to make it a little less overwhelming?"

"Well…I…I don't know," she was flustered by the whole prospect. "I—I didn't tell you this just to gain sympathy or as some kind of plea for help—"

"You just wanted me to understand why you do what you do," he summarized. "And now that I know why, I want to know how I can help."

She took a long beat to simply stare at him, sizing him up again with a new sense of critical appreciation.

"Never lie to me," she decided. "Really, lying to me is rather pointless and it only puts me on edge. And you don't have to laugh at my jokes, but let me laugh at them without feeling guilty for doing so. It's my one slim hold on sanity, so please don't make me feel shameful for engaging my only defense system."

"Fair enough," he pushed away from the pole he'd been leaning against, heading back to the door.

"And one last thing," her voice stopped him, causing him to turn back around.

"Yeah?"

She stood tall and calm, a collected fortress against the biting wind, her face set into the most serious of expressions. She looked like some piece of religious iconography, unmoving and perfectly aligned between the two metal poles, the breeze wisping strands of dark hair around her pale face, her cheeks stained red by the cold.

"Don't ever coddle me. Ever. I am not the sort of woman to be patronized."

He couldn't help but smile in agreement, "No, ma'am. You certainly are not."

She smiled—a tender, timid thing that softened the harsh line of her lips but never reached the dark depths of her eyes.

"You never answered the question," she stated.

"What question?"

"I asked you how you were unsuited for this job. You never answered."

He took a moment to consider. "I have too much faith—in justice, divine and man-made. And too much righteous indignation to let things go, especially if I feel justice hasn't been served."

"A just man in an unjust world," she mused, the playful light returning to her eyes. He realized that she'd connected too deeply with his unspoken feelings of helplessness at the aforementioned injustices of the world, and now she was deflecting that pang of empathy with a quip.

So he played along. "Makes a hard day's work for a vigilante, but hey, we all gotta do something to pass the time."

She was grinning again. "Yes. Yes, we do."

"Don't stay out here too long. You'll freeze."

"Ah, thank you. Being from England, I have no concept of how to survive in miserably cold weather."

"Just doin' my job, ma'am."

"You know, I would threaten you the way I threatened the young marine outside my interview room, but I think you'd actually enjoy it."

"What's the threat?" He was suddenly curious.

Her eyes were singing wickedly now. "Another conversation for another time."

"I will ask again," he pointed his finger at her, his brows furrowing in playful determination.

She laughed. "Of that I have no doubt, Agent Rossi. Of that I have no doubt."

She turned away and he went back inside. However, he did turn back to watch her through the glass window in the door for a moment. Her arms were wrapped around herself again, he could see her fingers digging into her upper arms, as if she were trying to hold herself together with every ounce of strength she had left.

They all had crosses to bear—and no amount of emotional unburdening would ever fully relieve them of the burden itself. But he had to admit, his suddenly felt a little lighter.

There were always worse fates.

As he headed back down the hall, SSA Keller rounded the corner. She stopped short, her blonde head whipping from Rossi to Eden and back to Rossi again—the look in her eyes was hard to read, but David got the distinct feeling of protectiveness that he'd seen in Judith's gaze whenever she'd seen him watching Jess (_don't you dare mess with her—what do you want?_).

"I was looking for Jude—we need her back in the briefing room," Keller announced, completely unnecessarily.

Rossi grandly motioned back towards the doorway, where Jude was still stationed against the pillar—_well here she is_.

Keller gave a curt, awkward nod, charging down the hall once more. Today she looked less austere—yesterday's skirt and heels had been replaced with drainpipe jeans and low-heeled boots that looked like they could kick some doors down (and probably had). Still, she walked with the same self-important air that screamed _bureaucrat in the making_.

He gave a light huff of laughter. People were funny little things.

However, his amusement dissipated when he glanced back down the hall again. Keller was at the door, swinging it open—Judith turned, surprised, her dark eyes holding the briefest flicker of sorrow before muting quickly into her standard sunny smile.

Yes, they all had their burdens, their demons screeching in protest, as Eden had said. It was the price they paid for the work they did—a price they paid, whether they truly wanted to or not. He knew this, had learned it many times in many painful ways over the years. You thought you'd given enough, thought there was no more left to give, and yet it always found a way to exact payment from you, always proved that you had more to lose.

With a light shake of his head, David Rossi continued down the hallway. Like Eden, he couldn't allow himself to focus on the depressing side of things—he had to focus on what he could change, what good he could still do.

Judith Eden would be just fine. And so would he—they all would. And they'd get there a lot quicker once they found the son of a bitch responsible for the latest tragedy in their lives.

* * *

"_But do not ask the price I pay  
I must live with my quiet rage  
Tame the ghosts in my head  
That run wild and wish me dead."_

_~Mumford &amp; Sons._


	36. It's A Very, Very Mad World

**It's a Very, Very Mad World**

"_But why, why, why can't people just say what they mean?"__  
__~Graeme Simsion__._

* * *

**_*Author's Note: Yes, I took this chapter's title from the iconic song 'Mad World' by Tears for Fears (though most people are familiar with the cover by Gary Jules and Michael Andrews, from Donnie Darko). As always, thank you so much for all the reviews/adds/follows/faves.*_**

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Dresden Dolls had to be put on hold while Sura Roza made yet another phone call. This one was going out to Agent Benjamin Fuller—she distinctly remembered speaking to him the day before. He'd been listed as not clocked in yet, but apparently he'd been on his way to the main building when the blast had hit, and he'd been corralled over to the Academy and had undergone questioning.

Today, he was unaccounted for.

She pulled up his number from the personnel file, punching it in quickly.

It rang, went to voicemail.

"Agent Fuller, this is Technical Analyst Roza—we spoke yesterday. Please call me back." She left her number and hung up. She put a marker on his name in the system, with a reminder to call him back later. A few agents had been out of reach on the first call, but had returned her calls with excuses of being in hospitals to see their wounded colleagues. If Fuller didn't respond within three hours, she'd call again.

"How goes the manhunt?" Shostakovich breezed into the room, heading over to the coffee pot.

"It goes." She gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Nothing on Maeve yet?"

"Nope. But I haven't actually looked—I've been busy trying to pinpoint possible birds who've flown the coop."

"Ah. I see." He held up the coffee pot. "Need some?"

"I'm off the junk," she informed him with a slight wave of her hand.

"Really? How do you stay awake and alert? I mean, how do you _live_?" His tone was playful, but he was truly curious.

"Same way as every other good recovering addict," she offered a winning smile. "One day at a time."

He chuckled, lightly waving his finger at her as if congratulating her on the good quip.

"So, you bury the hatchet with Rossi?" She turned her gaze back to the computer screen. Still, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jonas straighten up, as if he were about to shoot back an exasperated retort. His shoulders rolled downward again as he took a deep breath.

"Surely Agent Rossi knows I was just doing my job," he seemed perplexed at her suggestion. "I mean, I wouldn't expect him to apologize to me for doing his job—and I'd expect him to be just as thorough, if the tables were turned."

"I dunno," she gave a shrug. "Jude seemed to think you were particularly vindictive."

"_That_ hatchet has been buried," he reminded her.

She made a slight noise—whether it was one of agreement or disagreement, he couldn't tell. And he couldn't ask, because she was tapping in another number.

Whomever she was calling hadn't answered yet, so Jonas gently added, "Besides, David Rossi isn't in the clear yet—yes, he's got one less mark against him, but there's still plenty of compelling evidence."

She shrugged, as if accepting his words without truly believing them. Then she leaned forward again, her eyes glazing over as she concentrated on the person on the other end of the telephone. "Agent Markowitz? Hello, this is TA Roza, we spoke yesterday—yes, yes, I was calling to check in."

Jonas finished doctoring his coffee and turned his attention to the timeline made out of post-it notes, which were stuck to the wall.

This was always his favorite moment, and his least favorite, for the exact same reasons—this was the moment where everything hung on one turn, one clue, one change in thinking that opened the right door to the right trail to the right suspect. Everything could explode or implode on the smallest hint, the slightest distraction. It required cool, logical, clear-cut thinking, required his usual ability to cut aside the unnecessary and focus on the vital.

Except he hadn't been feeling that way. Not this time, not on this case. While he wasn't a brash man, he wasn't one for a lot of introspective navel-gazing, either—still, he forced himself to step back, to go back down his mind's own Hansel-and-Gretel breadcrumb trail, to find the source of this imbalance.

Jude. The Harrison case. That was the easy answer.

Tyler Harrison's abduction and brutal murder had been enough to shake anyone to the core. Of course, there had been specific triggers for Jude—the boy was her nephew's age, and the boy had been so mercilessly bullied by other kids that he'd been an easy mark for a predator, so desperate for some kind of acceptance and positive attention. Jonas knew that Jude had seen how her own childhood could've ended in a similar way, as if her empathic abilities hadn't already made this case tough enough. He'd felt Jude spiraling, but he hadn't realized how bad it was until it was too late.

He'd caught her the final night of the case, leaving Jessalyn Keller's room—there was no question as to the exact nature of her visit. He'd always been aware of Jude's sexual orientation (he'd known, almost as soon as he'd met her, though he never called her out on it whenever she pretended to be interested in men, because he'd understood the need for shielding and distancing), but he'd always thought that she'd remain professional enough to avoid creating complications at work. He'd assumed it was the first time, but something in Jude's attitude had belied the opposite—which only made it worse, because one could overlook a one-time slip up, a mistake, but _multiple_ occasions? That was grounds for dismissal, or reassignment to another unit at the least. Jessalyn was younger, noticeably so, and technically Jude, being a senior member of the team, was her superior. If it ended badly, things could get very messy, very quickly. Judith Eden would be hung out to dry like the witches of old—heavens knew that she'd made a few enemies in administration, all of whom would love the chance to publicly humiliate her.

That was still the easy answer. The harder answer was, as its name implied, much more complicated than that.

Jude was his best friend, and he'd always assumed that the relationship was mutual (after all, hadn't she called him her _nearest, dearest, and best_ so many times, hadn't she spent a month's worth of Sundays at brunches and lunches with him and Lise, hadn't she spent many a night on his couch, quietly talking about anything and everything, for years now?). But now…now he'd realized that if this wasn't a one-time deal, then his best friend had hidden a very big, very deep secret from him—and it hurt, thinking that she'd somehow found him unworthy of her confidence, after all the things they'd shared, after all the times he'd opened up to her with his own secrets.

His hurt had shifted to anger, because it was easier to bear. He'd confronted Jude about it, after the Harrison case had wrapped up. He'd badgered her to swear it was over, to promise that she'd never do something so stupid again, to call it off and never look back. She'd refused, in true irritating Jude fashion. He'd grabbed her, roughly, and the flash of fear in her eyes had been enough to break his heart. He'd let his emotions turn him into something that he'd never wanted to be, and that scared him.

However, he'd used that wonderful skill of transference. He swore it was Jude who was unraveling, Jude who was acting brashly and out-of-character, Jude who couldn't separate personal from professional…and yet.

And yet.

He was the one causing problems. He knew that. And for once in his life, he was completely at a loss when it came to figuring out how to right the ship—he was headed for the rocks and yet he couldn't find the right way to turn to rudder to avoid the crash, and it scared him, learning this depth of ineptitude that apparently lurked in his being. Jonas Shostakovich was a confident man, a capable man, and he could hardly recall a single instance in his life when he didn't know exactly what to do or when or how to do it. He'd prided himself on his certainty, had endured countless ribs and quips from Lise and his friends about his sureness, had built an entire career and reputation on his sense of rock-solid assurance—what was he without it?

_Who_ was he without it?

And _why_ was he without it? Why, out of all the storms he'd survived, all the rugs that had been pulled from underneath his feet, was this the moment that he no longer could handle it?

He'd been blindsided before. He'd been on horrible cases with horrible endings before. He'd been betrayed by a friend before. What made this combination of events so special?

He didn't think that he was making his suspicions about David Rossi into a personal vendetta. Yet people seemed to think that he was, and at this point, he was beginning to believe them—because he no longer knew what he knew, or why he knew it. He had to admit that his own outlook was skewed, damaged, perhaps even broken—and it was the last part that sent a flicker of fear through his stomach, because how do you fix something like that once it's broken?

"I doubt that timeline is that complicated," Sura's voice gently broke apart his thoughts. He turned back to her, slightly surprised at how soft her face was. She had an agelessly youthful face, yet in this moment, she actually looked like what she was—a middle-aged mother. Her eyelids were heavy with concern, the lines around her mouth more pronounced as her expression waited for his response.

She wouldn't ask if he wanted to talk about whatever was bothering him. That wasn't who Sura Roza was.

"No," he offered simply with a small smile. "I suppose it's not."

Roza blinked, kept her eyes on him like a cat, interested but unaffected at the same time. Like she was listening to a story that was amusing, but not suspenseful. It was one of her most interesting traits, the ability to be engaged without seeming truly invested.

"This thing with Jude. It's not that complicated either," her voice was still soft, edged with weariness and knowing. "She upset you, so you upset her, and now you can't stop digging this hole you've gotten yourself into."

If it weren't such a serious matter, she'd probably laugh at Jonas' look of complete shock—and even though her statement had been a guess, his reaction confirmed it as truth.

She leaned further across the desk, "Set down the shovel and just apologize. It's the easiest hard thing in the world."

_The easiest hard thing in the world_. Somehow, it actually made sense.

"And you think she'll just accept my apology?" He asked, his tone joking but his eyes filled with seriousness.

"She's Jude." Now Roza's usual crooked smirk returned. "She just needs to know that you understand how she feels. As for the rest—she thinks you've hung the moon, nothing can really change that."

He smiled softly at the comparison. It was hard to imagine Jude thinking such a thing about anyone, but he understood Roza's meaning—despite her secret-keeping, Judith Eden was still his closest friend, and he was still hers. The only way that changed was if they allowed it to.

He wasn't ready to change best friends. He quite adored the one he had.

Roza was already dialing another number. Jonas merely held up his coffee as if to wave goodbye, to which she gave a slight nod. When he reached the door, he glanced back at Sura one last time—her green eyes were watching him with a studied seriousness.

He didn't ask why—he merely stepped out into the hallway again.

Keller and Eden were making their way down the hall towards him, neither one speaking, both so far apart that they were practically on opposite sides of the corridor. Keller continued onward, but Jude stopped in front of him, her eyebrows quirking downward in concern.

"Everything alright, love?" Her English accent was in full force—she was too worried to try and temper it. Sura was right—she still adored him, too.

He turned to watch Keller trek further down the hall.

"Don't start on that again," Jude chided him quietly, her tone still tender.

"It's insanity," he informed her, his voice just as gentle. He didn't want to fight (not now, not again).

She offered a small smile, one that made her eyes looks like sad ghosts. "It always is, darling."

"You weren't surprised by Jess' revelation this morning," he changed the subject, only slightly.

"No."

"Because you already knew."

"Yes."

"Because she'd already told you—in private."

"Yes."

"When you were in her room." A statement, not a question.

"Vichie—"

"Jack Dawson isn't a stupid man, Jude—and Sura isn't dull, either." He stopped himself, took a deep breath, forced himself to let his worry manifest through concern rather than anger, "Be careful, Jude."

Again, the smile of a lost siren. "I'm always careful, Vichie. But we've both accepted the fact that eventually, the truth will out."

"Well, don't help it along," he warned her.

She nodded in agreement, her gaze falling to the ground as if she'd been severely chastised. He placed his hands on her shoulders—the only thing that kept him from wrapping her into a hug entirely. "I care, Jude. Don't ever think I don't."

"I know," her voice was a whisper, etched with unshed tears.

"For both of you—obviously, Keller isn't my friend in the way that you are, but I'd never want anything to happen to her—"

"And neither do I," Jude's dark eyes snapped up to meet his, suddenly burning with determination. "But if you continue stopping me in hallways to have this same conversation, grabbing me in front of other agents and otherwise causing a ruckus, that's going to be beyond our control very, very soon."

"I know." It was his turn to bow his head. "I…I didn't handle it well, the first time we talked. But Jude, you have to understand the absolute fear that I felt, knowing….knowing what this could mean, for both of you—but for you especially."

She gingerly took his wrists, pulling his hands away from her shoulders so that she could move in closer, reaching up on tip-toes to kiss his forehead. "You are a darling man, and I love you for it."

"You are a brash and impulsive idiot, and I love you for it," he returned with full conviction. Jude gave a sharp bark of a laugh, resting her head against his as they both chuckled—the words were hard, but the endearment in them was evident.

Jack Dawson rounded the corner, stopping at the sight before him. Judith's hands were holding Jonas' wrists, their bodies comfortably close (closer than mere coworkers' bodies should be), foreheads touching as they both giggled at some inside joke (not unusual).

Over Jude's shoulder, Jonas saw him, straightening his posture slightly in acknowledgement. Jude pulled back lazily, turning to see who it was. She merely offered a warm smile to Jack, as unabashed as a woman could be.

Jesus, Sura was right. The whole damn world was topsy-turvy.

* * *

_**Java the Hutt. Washington, D.C.**_

Honestly, Linnea had been floored that Jordan Strauss had acquiesced to her request so quickly and so easily. However, once she saw the younger woman, she suddenly understood why.

Jordan Strauss was geared up for battle—sure, her black leather riding pants, grey woolen sweater, and motorcycle boots were things that would be considered normal attire for the younger woman, but the set of her shoulders, the determination of her gait, the impassive set of her face, all informed Linnea of the fact that she wasn't the only one who planned to get to the bottom of something.

"You still haven't told me what you're writing about," Jordan unceremoniously took a seat at the bistro table at the corner of the patio.

"Nothing. Honestly," Linnea held up her hands in a sign of surrender.

"A reporter asking questions for a story she's not writing," Jordan's lips twisted into a wry smirk. "Well, that's a first."

A waiter came and took their orders. Jordan offered a friendly smile at the waiter, but once she turned back to Linnea, it fell from her face like a piano from a second-story window. She was still waiting for an explanation.

"It's—it's a mystery, I guess." Linnea shifted forward, getting closer to Jordan, making sure no one could over hear them. "Yesterday, I got an email from an FBI agent—someone with the BAU. Telling me about the bombing at Quantico."

"OK, so there's some kind of mole or whistleblower or whatever." Jordan was unimpressed. "But I can promise you, it's not David Rossi."

"How do you know?"

Jordan refused to answer. "So why is this a mystery?"

"Because I know David Rossi. Sort of."

"For someone who makes their living describing events, you really suck at explanations."

"Agent Rossi paid for my sister's funeral—I'd never heard of the guy, and my parents had only met him once, I think. During…just before her death." Linnea could tell by Jordan's regretful expression that she remembered the story Linnea had told during group therapy—she remembered and she understood.

"That sounds like something Dave would do," Jordan admitted. "But he had to have known your sister—he's a good guy, but it's not something he'd do for a random stranger with absolutely no connection to him. In group, you mentioned your sister had a stalker—was Rossi involved with her case somehow?"

_Dave_. Jordan had used a nickname—apparently she knew him very well. Linnea filed that away for later use as she tried to muddle through what was always a complicated story, "Yes and no—not in an official capacity. Um, my sister—she was…involved with someone from the BAU."

Jordan sat back suddenly. The wariness in her eyes was unmistakable. Her voice was filled with knowing dread as she quietly asked, "Linnea, what was your sister's name?"

"Maeve. My sister is Maeve Donovan."

* * *

"_If you have a sister and she dies, do you stop saying you have one? Or are you always a sister, even when the other half of the equation is gone?"__  
__~Jodi Picoult__._


	37. Belief, Hope, Results Unforeseen

**Belief, Hope, Results Unforeseen**

"_Pain is real. But so is hope."_

_~Unknown._

* * *

_***Author's Note: I know. I dropped a bombshell and disappeared for two weeks. For what it's worth, most of the delay was in making sure that all the details you'll see in these final six chapters are all in-line and lined up to launch us into the next story—there are a lot of threads to weave back into the main storyline, as I'm sure you've noticed. This story is fully written now, and I'll be posting the remaining chapters probably sometime tomorrow evening. Thanks to everyone for your patience, and for sticking with this story!***_

* * *

_**Surgical Recovery Wing, Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"Maeve," JJ's voice croaked, surprising her husband.

"What was that, Jayje?" He moved closer, gently placing his hand over hers as he leaned forward. JJ had been slowly returning to the waking world, sometimes drifting back into hazy almost-sleep as the last dregs of the anesthesia slipped through her system. She'd spoken a few times, usually incoherent mumblings or a question about Henry.

"Maeve," she repeated, grimacing. "I—ah, the…agents came, asking questions—"

"Take a moment, Jennifer," Dr. Mellinger was at her side as well, her voice soothingly gentle. "We're right here. We'll wait."

JJ closed her eyes, tried to organize her disjointed thoughts. "They asked…and I, I mentioned Maeve. And Erin. And Hayley. But the man—I don't remember his name—"

"That's alright," Dr. Mellinger assured her. "You don't have to remember."

"He—he looked surprised when I mentioned Maeve."

"God," Will sighed, hanging his head. "I wish she'd stop worrying about this damn case and focus on recovering."

She heard him, and a surge of anger swirled in her addled brain, "This—this is my family, Will. It's not about a damn case—it's Spencer, my Spence. I can't…"

She trailed off, trying to rein in her emotions and clear her thoughts.

"Take your time, Jennifer." The doctor kept her same soft tone, but she shot a warning look at Will (_don't excite her, Mr. LaMontagne—I will throw you out of here if I have to_).

Will got the message loud and clear.

"Tuh…tell Hotch," JJ closed her eyes, turning her head away. "He'll know…what to do. Please."

"I will," her husband promised. "Just…rest now, JJ. Please, don't think about anything else but getting better."

She pressed her eyes shut, as if agreeing. The bandages around her left eye had been removed, the purple-black bruising on her skin seeming too garish to be real. He saw the glimmer of a tear beneath her lashes.

Will fought back his own tears as he simply lifted his wife's hand to his lips, bestowing a dry, cracked-lip kiss on her knuckles. He let his own hand continue rubbing hers, in the same soft, lulling circles that he rubbed into their son's back whenever he needed to be settled back into sleep after a bad dream.

Again, he quietly told her about the team coming to see her. He reminded her that Henry was waiting to see her, and so was her mother. He reminded her that she was loved, she was needed, she was part of something that could not afford to be lost, an invaluable link in a chain that couldn't be broken. He hoped his words tethered her to the world, to the body in the bed, to his life just a little bit longer.

"This is all a very good sign," Candy Mellinger leaned in, keeping her voice low so she didn't disturb her patient. Will could see the bags under her bloodshot eyes, the deepening creases around her face which testified to a lack of sleep and proper hydration. He knew this woman had moved heaven and earth for his wife, and he felt another surge of emotion. The doctor's voice was kind, gentle, slipping into a West Virginia drawl that must have been her native accent, "I know it doesn't seem that way—but really, it is. She's remembering things that happened directly before the seizure—that's nearly unheard of. Most people who suffer from seizure disorders can't even recall the entire _day_ before their attack. Jennifer's been through a lot, there's no denying that—but I need you to remember that in every instance, she's had the best outcome possible for the given situation. Hold on to that, Mr. LaMontagne. That's the part worth holding on to—the _only_ part."

He nodded, blinking back tears and swallowing the lump in his throat. "I understand, Doctor. But it's one of those things that's easier said than done."

"And I understand that," she gave a slight nod and a small smile. "But that's your fight. Your wife's been fighting tooth and nail for twenty-four hours straight, and her fight's a lot harder than any of ours. So as long as she's doing her part, we have to do ours. That means keeping things on an even keel—no more frustration or arguments—and remaining optimistic. She's trying to stay alive and get well, she doesn't have time to be chipper or certain about it—but we do, and we have to. You with me?"

He became even more serious, nodding in agreement. "I'm with you all the way, Doc."

Her smile bloomed so bright that the fatigue in her face seemed to melt away, "Good. Now let's give her some peace and quiet."

"Can I…may I stay in the room? Just a little longer?"

The look on his face was heartbreaking. Candy Mellinger gave a light sigh of acquiescence. "I suppose."

She headed for the door, turning around to point an authoritative finger at him, "But you rile her up again and I'll have you out of here so fast, your head'll spin. And then I'll have you blacklisted until she's in more stable condition. I get your frustration and your worry, Mr. LaMontagne, but to be frank, you're not my concern. Jennifer is."

"Yes, ma'am. Read ya loud and clear, Doc."

She gave a smug smile and a curt nod of approval before leaving the room. Will turned his attention back to his wife, who'd drifted back out of consciousness. The bandages covering her face had been removed, only to be replaced by a new set around the top of her forehead. The skin was still blackish-purple, but no longer swollen—and even with the bruising, he could see the small stitches around the outside of her eye socket, where yesterday's surgery had taken place. Knowing JJ, she'd probably make some kind of joke about looking like the Bride of Frankenstein. That was her sense of humor—poking fun at herself with zero hint of self-consciousness.

God, he'd given almost anything to hear her laugh, to listen to one of her jokes, the kind that he could hear the smile in her voice. The special voice she used only for telling jokes to Henry, because no matter how corny the joke was, Henry would laugh at how funny his mom sounded. The dry, flat tone she used for her more sarcastic quips, the high-pitched amusement that slipped into her voice when she was bordering between laughter and frustration over something ridiculous like how-many-times-have-I-told-you-to-close-the-back-door, or is-it-really-that-hard-to-rinse-off-a-plate-before-you-put-it-in-the-dishwasher, or Henry-we-just-bought-you-that-new-shirt-how-did-you-already-get-paint-on-it.

Anything. He would give anything. Not almost anything. _Anything_.

He reached up, not daring to touch her face but rather gently resting his hand on the curve of her neck. "I love you, funny girl. Nothing will ever change that, nothing will ever stop me from loving you. Keep fighting, 'cause I'm fighting, too. And I won't stop til you're back home, with me and Henry, where you belong. You hear me? Don't stop."

In his other hand, JJ's fingers fluttered in response. Whether it was merely a muscle tic or an actual sign of agreement, he wasn't sure.

He chose to believe that she was agreeing to the terms of the deal.

He had to believe. That was part of his battle, too.

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Where you been, man?" Derek Morgan's question was equal parts curiosity and irritation.

David Rossi gave a slight shrug, tucking his hands into his pocket nonchalantly as he answered, "I wanted to sort things out with Agent Eden. After that little moment in the briefing room, I thought it was a good idea to clear the air a little bit."

He could see the flash of anger in the younger man's eyes (_I can handle my own shit, Rossi_), followed by curiosity (because Derek Morgan wasn't one to let a mystery slip by unsolved).

"And did you?" Morgan shifted slightly, as if he didn't want to be as curious as he was. "Sort things out?"

"I did," Rossi admitted simply. Judith Eden's attitude had made it pretty clear that she didn't exactly what every single person knowing about her personality traits, and he could understand why—but he could still tell Morgan without actually _telling_ Morgan. He took a deep breath, "We've all got ways to cope. You can't be too angry with her for having a different method than you do. And it's not fair to punish her for it, either—she knows how she comes across, and she regrets it, but it's how she stays sane. You can't ask her to give that up."

Derek Morgan ducked his head slightly before glancing away. Again, he found himself slightly upset for not being able to understand Judith Eden's actions sooner—just like with her Mad Hatter act, her using humor as a shield suddenly seemed plain as day, something he should have seen and understood almost immediately.

"Hey," Rossi's voice brought him back. "That doesn't mean it can't annoy the hell out of you—and it's not a bad thing if it does. It's just…now we know."

"Yeah," Morgan gave a slight nod. "Now we know."

Speaking of knowing things, he still hadn't checked with Garcia about JJ's condition. He'd already called Savannah after leaving the hospital—she hadn't answered, but he'd left a grateful voicemail, thanking her for all she'd down and promising to find a way to make it up to her soon.

"Can I ask you something?" Morgan was quiet, serious.

"I suppose." In true Rossi fashion, he added, "Doesn't mean I'll answer, though."

Morgan gave a slight huff of amusement before returning to his question. "Why'd you go to Eden? You seem the least affected by her strange behavior."

"Because I like answers," he returned simply. With a light smile, he added, "And because it affected you. And Kate, too."

Morgan understood the meaning behind the words (_It affected you, so it affected me, too. That's how family works. I wanted answers, because you needed answers._)

With another nod, the younger man admitted, "I appreciate that, Rossi."

Rossi opened his hands in a magnanimous gesture, "Anytime."

Then turning to the rest of the room, Rossi raised his voice, garnering everyone's attention, "So, what are we allowed to do today? Or have we simply been sent to detention until they can prove our innocence?"

Kate gave a snort of amusement at the mental image. Hotch didn't smile (huge shocker), but he seemed amused, "I think O'Donnell's convinced that we're trustworthy—at least for now. He wants to send us to the Mobile Command Center van on the front drive, to consult with the analysts stationed there. We'll be able to use our profile to narrow down their search parameters. Hopefully we'll strike something soon."

"Has anyone heard from Will or Garcia?" Spencer asked, pulling his own phone out to check for a missed call or text.

"No, but I was about to call Garcia to check in," Morgan held up his phone in explanation. "I'll do that right now—we'll know something by the time we reach the van."

Hotch gave a curt nod of approval, motioning for the rest of the team to head for the door. He waited until everyone else had filed out, easily slipping up next to Morgan to quietly intone, "While you're at it, you should just check in with Garcia in general. I don't know what's happened, exactly—aside from what she and JJ have been through with the bombing—but she's definitely got something going on right now."

True to his nature, Hotch remained as neutral as possible—but for someone who'd known him as long as Derek Morgan had, the concern for his coworker was evident in every single syllable.

"I know," Morgan admitted. "She wouldn't tell me what it was, when I asked her about it this morning. But I will figure it out—and do whatever I can to help set it right, whatever it is."

"Good. If anyone could do it, it's you."

Morgan wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but he understood that it was meant as a compliment. He merely nodded as they made their way through the halls of the Academy. Morgan turned his attention back to his phone, finding Garcia's number and hitting _send_.

She picked up on the first ring, her voice slightly breathless, "Hello, my knight in shining armor. What news from the base?"

"Nothing much to report, warrior woman." Morgan walked through the front entrance of the Academy, glancing over to see the rest of the team heading to the black Suburban that O'Donnell had arranged to transport them to the Mobile Command Center. "I was actually calling to see what news you had."

"Ah, I'm afraid we're evenly matched in that regard," her tone was tinged with regret. "Will's still back there with JJ, so I'm assuming that's a good sign. They told me that she came out of the anesthesia pretty well, but that's all I've heard so far."

"Alright. Well in this case, let's hope no news is good news." Morgan motioned to the others that he was going to walk back to the main building, instead of joining them in the SUV. Rossi waved him on before climbing into the vehicle.

Now that he was alone, Morgan turned to another equally-pressing matter. "Well, I've got a few minutes to spare—seems like a great time to talk about what was so important that you needed an early-morning coffee date."

She made a slight sound, as if she disagreed with his statement, "It's gonna take more than a few minutes, Morgan. And I'm still not sure I'm ready to pull all that messiness out just yet."

"Wait—you wanted to talk all about it this morning, or else you wouldn't have sent that text—"

"A moment of weakness. I regret it."

Those last three words made his chest contract, "You _regret_ it? Babygirl, I'm all for a little mystery to spice up the day, but you're being absolutely cryptic, and I don't like it—we don't hide from each other. Never have. And I don't plan on starting that kind of behavior now."

"Morgan," she used his name plaintively, as if she were tired and frustrated at the same time. "It's…a lot of things, and I'm not even sure what all of those things are. I'm not hiding from you. I'm just saying that this isn't some quick-fix five-minute conversation, and you don't have time for that right now."

He physically stopped walking, a ripple of shock rolling through his being. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. First of all—when it comes to you, I've got all the time in the world, Babygirl. Don't ever think that I wouldn't drop anything to come take care of you. And second, if this is your attempt to reassure me and make me feel like everything's fine, I'm gonna tell you, it really sucks."

She gave a slight laugh at that, and he felt the tension in his shoulders ease down a notch. He continued, "Seriously, this cloak and dagger stuff is making it sound worse than it probably is."

"I broke up with Sam," she blurted out quickly, as if confessing a deep and dark crime.

Shit. Maybe he'd spoke too soon when he said that it sounded worse than it actually was. "What? When?"

"Last night. It just happened. I couldn't take it anymore."

"Take what? Penelope, what was he doing to you?"

"Oh no, it wasn't anything like that—"

"Good, because I know that you know where he lives—and you know I would get that information from you and pay him a visit."

He could actually feel her rolling her eyes, even from miles away. "Calm down, Sir Gallant. It wasn't anything like that at all."

"Then what was it?" He became serious once more.

"It's too much to talk about right now." She gave a sigh before pushing her voice into a more plaintive tone, "Please, can we just focus on JJ?"

He took a deep breath, pushing his legs double-time to make up for his temporary halt. "Penelope Garcia, you better know that I love you—that is the _only_ reason I'm letting this go for now. Because you asked. I don't have to be a profiler to know there's way more to this story than you're telling, and as your best friend, I need to know what's going on."

"I know," her voice was small. "And I will tell you everything, as soon as we have a moment to really, truly talk."

"For the record, I am not happy with this situation."

"What situation? Me and Sam, or me and you?"

"You. Just you, Babydoll. Sam's a nice guy but he's definitely not my concern. And I'll be just fine, too. What concerns me is that you've been through a lot over the past twenty-four hours, and the one guy who should be right there with you isn't."

"Sam wouldn't be here anyways. He has work."

"I wasn't talking about Sam, Sweetness."

There was a beat of silence. Carefully, Penelope said, "You have to work, too."

"I've got a lunch break coming up. I can take you out for that coffee you asked for, before we found out about JJ."

She made a small noise, which he chose to interpret as a sign of gladness. "Derek Morgan, you really are a darling."

"So is that a yes or a no?"

"It's a maybe—and it's probably gonna end up being a maybe-later. I need to be with JJ and Will and Henry right now."

"Understood, Lil Mama." He looked ahead, to the Mobile Command Center that was now only a few yards away. "Let me know when you hear anything else about JJ."

"Of course."

"And Penelope?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm serious. I don't like whatever this is. I don't like secrets and I don't like feeling like I'm out of the loop on my own best friend's life."

"I know. I'm sorry." Penelope took a deep breath. "Just focus on doing what you need to do, OK? We'll sort my stuff out later."

"That's a promise."

Derek hung up, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. He entered the MCC van, joining the rest of his team and the analysts. It was at least ten minutes before he could even concentrate on what was being said—his head was still swimming.

Hotch was conferring with the two analysts from D.C., his face in its typically somber expression as he listened to Viega, the first analyst, describe his current task of analyzing security feed footage from the past two weeks, trying to spot anyone behaving suspiciously or bringing in larger objects that might contain the ingredients needed to create the big boom.

Then Hotch turned to Federer, the second analyst, "And what area of the investigation are you covering?"

Federer glanced back to his computer out of sheer habit before answering, "I'm checking local store inventories for purchases of all three of the items used in the bomb—at least the three given to us by the lab and the bomb techs. We're expanding to a fifty-mile radius."

"Expand it to a thousand, you won't find anything," Spencer Reid piped up, not confrontationally, but not exactly friendly, either.

The two analysts looked at him in a mixture of surprise and confusion.

Spencer held out his hands, explaining, "These chemicals are household items—anyone could have a legitimate excuse to buy them. Besides, our UNSUB probably didn't buy them all at the same place. He probably spread the purchases out, getting a different ingredient at each store. And even then, he probably paid in cash—no credit card, no name to trace it back to. And honestly, he probably did drive over fifty miles to purchase these items, perhaps into different states entirely, to keep us off the trail."

"That's a lot of probablys," Viega returned calmly.

"That's exactly what John Curtis would do," David Rossi intoned gravely, giving a small nod of agreement to Reid.

Viega gave the young doctor a long, hard look, "But what about this whole god-complex thing? If our guy thinks he ain't getting caught, why bother covering his tracks?"

"Because he isn't stupid," Hotch crossed his arms over his chest again. "He doesn't think he'll be caught, but he isn't going to make it any easier for us, either. This whole attack is an exercise in power and skill, showing us just how much smarter he is than all of us. And if he's out to one-up John Curtis, then he's got to be even more careful. He isn't covering his tracks so that he won't get caught—he's doing it to prove to us that he's thought of everything, that he's always one step ahead and intellectually superior."

The two analysts exchanged glances. They still seemed wary of this idea. However, Viega turned back to them without the slightest hint of irony and asked, "So, what do we do now, then?"

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

The room was silent except for the occasional shuffle of papers as interview transcripts were read and re-read. Some of the interviewers had tagged specific interviews as possibly containing viable information, and now Scott O'Donnell, Mateo Cruz, Jack Dawson, and Judith Eden were wading their way through the transcripts, hoping for some kind of miraculous clue.

"Chief Cruz?"

Mateo Cruz turned around to see the perpetually wide-eyed expression of his secretary and administrative assistant, Dora Carrington, who was standing in the doorway. The first time he'd met her, he'd been struck by how much she resembled a porcelain doll—large, wide-set bright blue eyes, long symmetrical nose, rosebud mouth, pale oval face, thick chestnut brown hair. She had the kind of face that immediately brought to mind the words like _sweet, kind, complacent_—but he'd quickly learned that she had a biting sense of humor and a droll wit to match. Of course, that had made him like her all the more. Some days he still felt unsure about where he stood with her, but she had a habit of coming through and proving her loyalty whenever he truly needed it.

Had this been any other day, had they been involved in any other case, he would've mentally dismissed the worry in her expression—her sweet face also seemed forever fixed in an expression of concern, and he'd learned not to put too much stock into it alone.

However, this wasn't any other day, nor any other case.

"What is it, Carrington?" He was on his feet and to her in a flash. The rest of the room took notice, and Carrington's Brandeis-blue eyes skimmed the perimeter, her surprise and uncertainty silently informing Matt that whatever she had to say, it was meant for him alone.

"May we…step out?" She gave a delicate gesture back to the hallway.

"Of course," he matched her low tone, his own voice edged with concern.

She looked around one more time as they slipped further down the hall, but she didn't delay a second longer than necessary, the words tumbling out in a nervous rush, "There's something going on—well, obviously, there is, but something's happening on the outside and I don't know what you can do about it, but—well, you should know about it, either way."

He merely waited for her to continue. She was already skittish and he didn't want to do anything that could spook her.

"Jordan Strauss—Erin Strauss' daughter—contacted me late last night. She's been approached by a journalist." Carrington sighed, shook her head, looked away. "That wouldn't be anything new, but for once, the reporter wasn't asking about Erin and John Curtis. She was asking about yesterday's attack—and she specifically asked about David Rossi."

"In connection to the attack?" Cruz felt a ripple of unease.

"Apparently. It's not entirely clear yet—but she sought Jordan out to specifically ask questions about the bombing, and David Rossi was mentioned by question number two or three." Now it was Carrington's turn to simply watch and wait for Cruz's response.

"David Rossi is also one of the most well-known members of the entire Bureau, thanks to his books," Cruz reminded her. "She might just be grasping at straws, dropping any names she could find to see where she could get her foot in the door, through Jordan Strauss."

"Maybe." Carrington's wide eyes didn't blink. "But can we afford to chalk it up as a mere coincidence?"

She had a point. Matt sighed. "I suppose not. Where's Rossi right now?"

"At the MCC, with the rest of the BAU."

"Oh, yeah, of course," he dismissed his own absentmindedness with a wave of his hand, which then returned to the bridge of his nose, massaging the point where a headache was beginning to pulse.

"Here, sir," Carrington seemingly produced two pills from thin air. "Take 'em with a big glass of water and you'll be set."

"How do you do that?" He gratefully took the pills from the palm of her hand. Really, he shouldn't be surprised by it anymore—Carrington had an almost telepathic ability to detect 'a disturbance in the force', as she called it, and she often was at his side with the solution before he'd even realized there was a problem.

"It's a gift," she gave a nonchalant shrug of her shoulder.

"You're like Girl Friday on steroids."

There was a momentary flash of unreadable emotion across that doll face. With a small smile, she offered, "Strauss used to call me that, too."

They'd never really talked about it, but Matt had always gotten the very distinct impression that despite all the ice queen rumors, Erin Strauss had been very close with her assistant. Unsure of what else to say, he smiled gently as well, "Well, she was right."

Carrington gave a slight nod, clasping her hands in front of her. "Should I call Agent Rossi?"

"I'll call him. I'm not sure that he'll take the news with joy and elation—and I wouldn't put you through dealing with David when he's unhappy."

Now she was grinning. "Good luck, sir."

She started down the hall, but Cruz's voice stopped her, "Carrington."

"Sir?"

"Stick around. You know Rossi better than I do—"

"I'm not sure that's exactly true, sir—"

"You've seen more sides to him." He was referring to how Rossi acted with Strauss, and they both knew it. And as Strauss' former gatekeeper, they also both knew that Carrington had probably seen things that she should have reported to the higher ups. However, Cruz wasn't blaming her for that—it showed that Carrington had loyalty, and that was important when you reached this level of political power-playing. So far, she'd proven herself to be on his side, and as long as she remained that way, he didn't mind letting her unprofessional bias slide. He took a deep breath, "I just want another pair of eyes on him, that's all. You're the best option I've got."

Her mouth quirked into a wry smirk. "I'm the _only_ option you've got, Chief."

"Yeah, well, I was trying to make it sound nicer than that."

She didn't stop smiling. Instead, she made her way back to him, lightly patting his shoulder, "You really need to take those pills."

"Yes, ma'am." He followed her back to the room, where the others had already returned to their task. Before they stepped through the door, he gently pulled her back. "What do you think we'll find?"

Again, those blue eyes were wide with uncertainty. "I honestly don't know, sir. I've learned over the years that when it comes to Jordan Strauss, anything is possible—and the same goes for Agent Rossi. So put those two together—and it really could be anything."

He sighed, pulling out his phone, "I supposed we'll find out soon enough."

"I hope so, sir."

* * *

_**Mobile Command Center (MCC), Outside Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

It was just past noon when David Rossi stepped out of the MCC van again, sighing heavily as his hands went to his lower back. He never had any trouble running and going and doing, but Christ, whenever he spent hours on end simply standing in one place, his body always made sure to protest.

His mind felt muddy. The BAU and the two D.C. analysts had been following rabbit trails and dead ends for hours now, the team occasionally taking breaks to huddle around and refine a particular aspect of the profile, or try to think their way to the next logical conclusion—but with so little to go on, the biggest problem was finding a way to _limit_ possibilities. Hell, they'd even searched airline manifests of flights bound to destinations where U.S. extradition didn't apply, hoping to find a passenger with some kind of connection. So far, nothing.

And now he was being called back to the Academy by Cruz, who'd been as cryptic as hell and only furthered Dave's building sense of irritation. However, when he'd looked at Hotch and saw the slight flash of fear in his unit chief's usually stoic expression, irritation had been muted by concern.

Out of habit, he scanned the perimeter—that's when he spotted Adelaide Macaraeg across the main drive, pulling items out of the back of a big black SUV.

If his day was about to take a turn for the worst, he might as well take a few extra minutes to have one last flash of good.

His hand automatically went to his coat's inner pocket, double-checking that he still had what he needed. Then he headed towards her.

When Mac noticed him, there was a moment of physical surprise—her shoulders shot up, almost as if someone had jumped out and scared her. Her eyes were wide, wary, almost uncomfortable.

"Didn't know you guys transferred over to the van," she stated, her voice tinged with question. It was a volley, he could tell—she provided a neutral statement to gauge his current mood. Given the way they'd left things the night before, he didn't blame her.

"Helping out the analysts," he supplied easily, trying to let his body language show that he was relaxed, non-combative.

"Oh," was all she said. With one last cautious look, she returned her attention to the back of the SUV, where she was removing more supplies from a pelican case, setting them into a small box. Almost to herself, she said, "We've being going through evidence collection tubes and bags like candy up there—I was expecting a mess, but I certainly wasn't expecting a mess of this magnitude."

He gave a hum of understanding. She set the small box onto the ground and closed the back of the vehicle with a definitive thud, turning to look at him again, "You wanna talk about last night."

It wasn't a question, and it wasn't a pulled punch. He couldn't help but admire her directness.

"Not in the way that you think," he informed her. "Not even about the part that you think."

She arched her brow in incredulous surprise.

"Have you booked your flight for your daughter's graduation yet?" He asked conversationally.

"I don't see how it's any of your business, either way," she informed him, firmly but not unkindly. She stooped to retrieve the box, letting it settle against her hip bone as she simply waited for his response.

She had a point. He shrugged in slight agreement before continuing, "Well, if you have, I hope it's refundable."

She looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. He reached into his inner pocket again, pulling out an envelope. "For you."

She gingerly set down her box of supplies again, reaching out to take the envelope, her amber eyes warily latched onto his darker ones as she slowly opened it. Her gaze fell as she pulled out the paperwork inside, those eyes widening even further as she read it.

Adelaide felt like a bomb had just exploded over her head—in the best of ways. Her entire body went stock-still as she read the papers—papers detailing a private plane, chartered by David Rossi with her name as the sole passenger, roundtrip to Madison, Wisconsin.

"Wha…wha…" She gave a slight breathless huff, shock and delight flooding her face. "I mean, how…?"

"Old buddy of mine's a retired pilot. Keeps his plane on the private side of the airport. He doesn't have anything to do and he loves flying. He's more than happy to help." Rossi motioned to the papers again. "There isn't a departure time on there, but technically, you have the plane chartered for 48 hours. He lives nearby, all you have to do is call him and tell him when you want to fly out, and he'll handle the rest. His card's in there."

Mac's incredulous delight was slowly melting into wariness. Hating how ungrateful she sounded, she still couldn't help herself from asking, "And what's in it for you?"

"Nothing," he seemed surprised that she'd even ask. "I just wanted to help, and I am in a position to do so—so I did."

"A position to do so," she murmured, almost to herself. Then her wolf-like eyes flicked back to him, still unbelieving, "Rossi, I dunno how to explain this…but I am not the kind of woman that men just do nice things for. I don't have that…whatever it is that inspires selfless gallantry in the knightly sex. I've learned the hard way that very few favors come without some kind of expectation."

She was still watching him, waiting for his response. Rossi felt a pang of pity for her. However, he could see that she was right—she was a slight thing (hell, even Spencer Reid could easily sweep her off her feet), all angles and hard-edges, a tiny woman with a hurricane personality. She was striking, but not softly beautiful. She was the kind of woman that sparked men's imaginations, but not towards thoughts of love and devotion. She was a woman that a certain kind of man would want to claim, but not keep.

But David Rossi wasn't that kind of man. "I may be many things, Agent Macaraeg, but I'm not a man who does nice things with the intention to use them against people. It's a gift—just that, only that. You wanted to be with your daughter, and as someone who understands what it means to miss a lot of important moments with his kids, I wanted you to be with your daughter. So I'm giving you this gift. No strings attached."

She studied him for a beat longer, then simply nodded. Then she glanced back down at the papers, shaking her head softly as she allowed herself to smile. Now that she knew the gift came without a quid pro quo clause, she could truly consider it.

She could be with Emma by tomorrow morning. She could leave at the last possible moment—spending as much time with her daughter as she could. No worrying over missed flights or long layovers. It was a dream come true.

"I still can't believe it," she admitted. Her face was blooming with happiness.

"Believe it," he replied. Her smile was making him smile too.

Her smile deepened into a full-out grin. Then she gave a laugh of delight—her hand shooting to her mouth as if surprised by her own outburst. She glanced up at him again, amber eyes dancing with happiness.

Then she reached out, grabbed his face in both her hands, and fiercely kissed him.

* * *

_"Sometimes people surprise us."_

_~Joyce Carol Oates._


	38. Beginnings, Endings, Things In-Between

**Beginnings, Endings, Things In-Between**

"_A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous."_

_~Ingrid Bergman._

* * *

_**Outside FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Adelaide Macaraeg jumped back as if she'd been scalded, both hands clapping over her mouth, the envelope in one hand obscuring half of her face.

"Ohmygod I'm so sorry," her words were muffled by her hands. Her eyes were the size of saucers.

"I'm not," Rossi returned easily, still slightly stunned by the sudden turn of events, though far from upset by it.

She laughed, quickly, like a dam bursting with nervous tension. Her hands left her mouth, but her cheeks were still red. She shook her head, in consternated awe of her own actions. "I don't know what came over me—it was just such a nice surprise, and I was so elated—"

"Then I should make it a habit to surprise you more often." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them—a natural reaction, ingrained by years of casual flirting.

She tried to fix him with a stern stare, but the corners of her eyes were still smiling and her lips were twisting like trapeze artists as they tried not to laugh again.

"I knew you were trouble from the moment we met," she pointed a playfully accusing finger at him. "Everything you do only strengthens that premonition."

"But would trouble give you such a nice surprise?" He held his hands open in feigned innocence.

She looked at him down the length of her nose, weighing his question. "That's exactly what trouble would say."

Now he merely grinned.

She pointed at him one last time. "It was a thing, but it wasn't a _thing_. Got it?"

"I'm not sure."

"David Rossi, you're an outright liar."

"Only when it benefits me."

She rolled her eyes, stooping to pick up the box of supplies. "It didn't mean anything."

"Tell yourself whatever you want. I'm just along for the ride."

She guffawed at that. "Oh, _right_."

He held his hands up in a helpless gesture, "What? You were the one who kissed me."

She stopped again, her face still filled with amusement but her eyes alight with a new curiosity. "And you didn't stop me."

"I didn't."

"Would you have?" She stepped forward again, shifting the box to her hip.

"Stopped you? Absolutely not."

This answer pleased her (it shouldn't, Christ Almighty, it should have the exact opposite effect on her, as a professional, as a woman whose life didn't need further complications), and she merely grinned again.

David Rossi suddenly decided that she looked absolutely brilliant when she smiled.

Her expression softened, "Thank you, though. I mean it."

"You're welcome."

She turned to head back inside, but his voice stopped her.

"Mac?"

"Hmm?" She looked back at him, her brows quirking downward in confused curiosity.

"I meant what I said about no strings attached." He slipped his hands into his coat again, giving a theatrically nonchalant shrug, "But if you wanted to keep grabbing me and kissing me from time to time, I wouldn't say no. Just so you know."

She was rolling her eyes as she shook her head and turned away, "You are a cad, David Rossi."

"But a cad who does nice things," he called after her.

She waved away the comment, "Yeah, yeah. A cad who does very nice things."

She didn't have to look back to know that he was grinning like a madcap.

And even though she didn't turn back to him, David Rossi saw her hand go to her cheek, then to her stomach. He knew what that meant. And it made him grin all the more.

* * *

_**Ninth Floor, FBI Main Building.**_

"You were taking so long, we thought about sending out the cavalry," Jeff Masterson commented dryly, never looking up from his sandwich. He and Roe taken a break to grab a bite to eat, sitting side by side in the hallway, past the containment zone.

"Oh. I—uh—got sidetracked, sort of," Mac admitted. That was when Jeff noted her slightly breathless tone, and he stopped eating to look at her fully.

"Y'okay?" His expression was furrowed in confusion with a dash of concern.

"Yeah, I—I'm better than OK, actually." Mac was beaming now, brighter than the lights on the Vegas strip. She motioned in the general direction of the SUV. "Um, Agent Rossi just completely blew me away—he took care of everything, for…for Emma's graduation. Chartered me a private flight with a pilot friend of his, got the guy to agree to leave whenever I felt like it, everything."

"Wow." Rowena Lewis stopped eating as well, settling back against the wall as she looked up at her chief. "That's a big favor."

"It is," Mac ducked her head, suddenly demure.

Jeff Masterson was watching her like a hawk, though. He detected the faintest hint of a blush in Mac's cheeks.

"Well," Mac gave a slight flop of her one free hand, jerking her head in the direction of the blast site. "I'm gonna get all the new supplies sorted, get the vials we've already filled ready to go down to the lab."

A completely unnecessary narration of her actions, and an obvious attempt to change the subject. She headed down the hallway.

"Hm." Jeff watched her go.

"Yep." Roe took another bite of her sandwich. Covering her mouthvwith her hand, she spoke through a mouthful of food. "Looks like you're gonna have to give up on the good ship MacDonnell."

* * *

_**Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

The cabbie was nice enough to help her out of the back seat, holding her crutches in one hand while holding Penelope's hand in the other. She thanked him again, profusely, and he merely waved away the thanks with a smile.

"You need more help, sweet girl?" He asked, the skin around his mocha-colored eyes crinkling in a friendly smile.

"No, I'll be fine—thank you, Mr. Albeniz, really," she assured him.

"Anytime. You be careful." He hurried back to the driver's side and drove away.

Derek Morgan always teased her about that—her inability to take even a simple cab ride without becoming fast friends with the driver. _Penelope Garcia, never meets a stranger_, he'd grin and shake his head (though she always sensed it was out of incredulous wonder, not disapproval, and that made it more of a compliment than a reprimand).

By the time she made it to the door of her apartment, she was acutely aware of just how little rest she'd gotten over the last twenty-four hours. Will had sent her home with strict instructions to rest—and she'd only agreed when she realized that if she slept during the afternoon, she could take over for Sandy by watching Henry at night. Will had decided that JJ still wasn't ready to see her son just yet, and as much as it pained her, Penelope had to agree. There was only so much a five-year-old could handle, and Henry had been pushed to the limit (and not for the first time, sadly).

Her cellphone began to ring as she entered her apartment—it took a moment of slight maneuvering to fish it out of her purse while balancing on her crutches.

It was Sam.

"Hi," she answered, unsure whether to be happy or heartbroken.

"Hi." He returned simply. After a slight pause, he added, "I, uh—I told you that I would check in, just to…check in, I guess."

The awkwardness was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. Penelope felt a wave of self-loathing for being the reason that they were here now, in the land of unspoken feelings and half-meant pleasantries, screaming hearts and silent mouths and a constant pendulum swinging from anger to hurt to this-was-always-the-sweet-part-that-I'll-miss-the-most.

"Yeah," she was speaking too quickly, her voice too garishly cheerful. "I—yeah. Thank you. I'm OK. JJ took a turn for the worst, but she's back on the mend again. And I…."

She trailed off. He didn't have to listen to all that now. It wasn't in his job description anymore, so to speak.

"Sorry," she ducked her head, cleared her throat. "I'm doing well. Thank you for calling."

"Of course," he was shuffling around—she wondered if he was still at work, making this call from his workstation. "I, uh…just, yeah. Of course."

She bit the bullet, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could reconsider, "Do you want to talk about last night?"

He didn't make a sound, but she could sense him releasing the breath he'd obviously been holding for the entire conversation. The elephant in the room had been invited to join the tea party. Softly, he admitted, "I don't want to put you through any more stress, Penelope—"

"Don't you see? That's the issue," she kept her voice gentle, but the urgency behind her words was unmistakable. "I know I look like I've been through hell—and yeah, I _have_ been through hell—but it's nothing I haven't been through before, Sam. You forget that. It's kind and sweet and wonderful that you don't want to add any more stress to my life, but I can handle it."

"Yeah, I guess I'm learning that lesson too late," he returned, his voice etched with sadness and anger.

"I'm sorry." She wasn't sure what else to say.

"Me too." He took a deep breath, paused, then said what was on his mind, "And Penelope? I get…I get that we're done. And I don't—I know how this might sound, but I hope you understand what I'm trying to say here. Whoever you decide to date—whenever you decide to let someone in again—maybe you should explain that. I only tried to give you what I thought you needed and wanted, and you….you never told me otherwise until you were too far gone—until you were saying goodbye. Maybe next time, you'll give the guy a chance."

She knew that he wasn't being cruel, but his words still hit hard.

"Yeah," she blinked back tears, swallowing the burning lump in her throat. "I'll try, Sam. I'm just…I'm sorry I didn't try with you."

"I wasn't meant to be that guy," he informed her quietly. "I was meant to be the guy who showed you that you had to try next time."

She wanted to joke that he was being awfully zen about it all, but she knew it would fall flat. He was hurting, and he was still trying to take care of her. Again, she felt a wave of anger at her own self for what she'd done to this kind man and his kind ways.

"And what was I meant to be, to you?" She tried to keep her voice calm, level, but the wobbliness betrayed her.

Another deep breath. "I dunno yet. I think there'll be a lot more long walks through the city before I figure that one out. Maybe you're teaching me to say goodbye with grace. I've never known a girl like you, Penelope Garcia. Never had a break-up that left me still feeling protective and…I dunno, _caring_ towards the other person. That's gotta be a good sign, right?"

"I guess so. I hope so."

"Me, too." He was quiet for a moment. "You take care of yourself, Penelope Garcia."

"You, too." She didn't try to hide the fact that she was crying now.

"I'm…I'm glad you're OK. But, um…I think that's all I need to know for now. That you're OK."

"I am. I always will be."

"Yeah. I'm learning that."

She slipped her hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing.

Sam shuffled around some more. "Well, I…goodbye."

"Bye." She could barely force the words out of her mouth. She hung up before he could hear her crying.

And then she simply stood there, in her kitchen, leaning into her crutches as her whole body heaved with big, sloppy, heartbroken sobs.

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

It was odd, the fact that Carrington was there, too. Sure, she was a vital part of Cruz's ability to operate as Section Chief, but she was purely administrative—David Rossi could count on one hand the number of times that he'd actually even seen her out of her own office, in the little waiting area outside the Section Chief's quarters.

But today, she was out of setting and role, standing beside Mateo Cruz, who was seated at a stranger's desk in a small office at the Academy, arms banded tightly across her chest as if she were holding on to her own self for dear life, looking even more out of character by wearing drainpipe jeans, Converse sneakers, and a loose button-down—David couldn't even recall a single instance in which he'd actually seen her in pants, much less jeans.

If Dora Carrington looked off-point, Mateo Cruz was certainly her polar opposite—in his khakis and button down, which looked as rumpled as his unshaven face and frustration-tousled hair, with his battle-worn expression and heavy shoulders, he looked every inch the part of a beleaguered and sleep-deprived Section Chief who'd just had a major catastrophe happen on his watch.

He motioned to an empty chair with one hand, the other still scrubbing the side of his face in a mixture of frustration and genuine fatigue. Whatever he had to say, it certainly wasn't going to be pleasant for either of them.

"So Carrington informed me that there's a reporter sniffing around this story."

"I would bet good money that there's more than one," Rossi commented drolly, not sure why the press was suddenly his problem.

Cruz offered a dry smile at the quip. "Yes, but this one's asking about you, specifically."

"In what context?" The older man sat up a little straighter, more curious than concerned.

"We're not entirely sure yet," Cruz admitted. Rossi took a beat to simply stare at the man (_what the hell's going on here, Cruz?_).

"It's Jordan," Carrington blurted out, slightly startling Cruz with her volume and emphatic delivery. "Some reporter tracked her down, found her at her grief support group—she knows who Jordan's mother is—was—and she thought maybe Jordan would know you. Jordan says you were the first person the reporter asked about, specifically."

"And the reporter was asking about this attack?" Rossi clarified, his head beginning to swim. It had been a few weeks since he'd talked to the Strauss children, but he would've thought that Jordan would call him about something like this.

Carrington gave a quick nod, "Jordan said she wasn't fishing. She definitely knew something."

"Something about you, obviously," Cruz resumed control of the conversation again, clasping his hands together on the desk in front of him. "Now I'm not stupid enough to actually believe that you're in any way responsible for this attack—but I do know how the press works, and I know they can get a little creative in their writing. So if there's something that someone might can dredge up to paint you in a bad light, I need to know about it now."

_Damage control_, Erin's voice echoed in David's head. _I can't protect my agents if I don't know what to protect them from._

She'd told him that once (_screeched_ it, to be more precise), when he was refusing to tell her what had really happened during a case. He'd been covering for a coworker and they both knew it. At the time, he'd have sworn on a stack of Bibles that she really just wanted an excuse to dismiss the agent in question. Years later, he understood that her job was to protect the people in her section, and sometimes that meant protecting them from themselves and their own stupid mistakes.

"I understand," Rossi assured his Section Chief—and he truly did. "But I haven't got a clue why a reporter would think I could connect to this case. Why don't you just ask the reporter yourself?"

Now Cruz looked away, his mouth setting in a line. "We've got to find her, first."

Rossi glanced up at Carrington in askance.

Carrington's impossibly blue eyes shifted away, to a distant corner of the room. Her fingers dug into her upper arms as she quietly admitted, "Jordan—she isn't answering her phone. Last I spoke to her, she was planning to meet the reporter. She just sent me a text, and hasn't responded to any of my texts that I've sent since then, or answered any of my calls."

"Sweet Jesus in short-pants," Rossi was on his feet now, showing the first true concern since his arrival. "How long ago was this? Did Dani say where she was meeting the reporter, or mention a name?"

_Dani_. Mateo Cruz's head snapped back around at that little slip of the tongue—David Rossi was referring to Erin Strauss' eldest child by a nickname, a sign of just how close they must have been.

"N-no," Carrington took a small step back, flustered by Rossi's sudden intensity. "And it's been a little over two hours since she was supposed to meet with the reporter."

"Jesus," Rossi hissed under his breath, shifting away as his hand went to rub his goatee in irritation. "A lot can happen in two hours—do we know anything about this reporter, like if she's actually a reporter or not? She could have lured Jordan somewhere, done something—"

He stopped himself—one glance at Carrington's ghastly expression informed him that her mind was already turning over the possibilities, and had been doing so for quite some time.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, to no one in particular. "I just—I feel responsible for Jordan, in a way. Even if this wasn't somehow connected to the attack, I still wouldn't want her going off on her own for something like this."

"Trust me, I tried to convince her otherwise," Carrington put on a brave face, mustering an attempt at feigned frustration. "But you know how hardheaded Jordan Strauss can be."

He did—and he knew from firsthand experience where she'd inherited that particular trait.

"She thought…she thought she could protect you," Carrington admitted quietly, her heart breaking just a little bit.

David Rossi deflated like a pricked balloon. _Heaven help me, Erin—your children are gonna be the death of me._

Another trait inherited from her mother—_of course_ Jordan hadn't called him, hadn't told him about the reporter, because she thought she could take care of the problem herself. She wanted to protect him. She was a sweet girl doing a foolish thing, out of love and honor and duty and compassion, and if he lost another one that way, it may just wreck his soul. Too many good souls had been lost on his watch. Erin's daughter couldn't be one of them. He owed that much to his former lover.

"We have to find her. Now." Rossi turned his full attention back to Cruz. "Track her phone, do whatever it takes."

"We can't do that yet," Cruz shook his head. Giving a glance in Carrington's direction (one which informed David that this conversation had already happened between those two at least once), he added, "As of right now, she's just someone who knows a reporter with a story. We can't simply track someone's location on a whim. I need a reason. There are rules."

Rossi knew he had a losing hand, but still he pushed further, "The fact that she's hinted at knowing something about the bombing isn't reason enough?"

Cruz held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I can't go around tracking the phones of every single person who asks a question about this case."

"It wouldn't matter anyways." The corner of Carrington's mouth quirked into a moue of regret. "I've been calling her for hours now—it goes straight to voicemail. Her phone has to be turned off completely. We couldn't track her, even if we tried."

Of course. Jordan was a smart girl who'd read all of his books and watched too many crime dramas—he remembered last spring that she'd asked him a series of questions about cellphone tracking during one of their monthly dinners (it had been months since they'd had one of those, he suddenly realized, he needed to reinstate those as soon as possible). Of course she'd remembered it and of course she'd realized that by telling her plans to Carrington, she'd potentially opened the door to FBI interference, and of course she didn't want that.

Infuriatingly like her mother, that one.

Cruz was speaking again, "Carrington did remember the reporter's name—Linnea, that's all Jordan gave her. And we've been able to find a Linnea Charles, who works for _The Washington Daily_. Whether that's actually whom Jordan's meeting with or not, we're not sure—but we did call the editorial office in D.C. They've confirmed that she's meeting with someone this morning, but wouldn't give out any further information—they said they'd contact her as soon as possible to let her know that we have a few questions for her."

It was time to stop relying on technology—David Rossi came from the days when cases were made without Big Brother's Eye in the Sky. He went back to the basic mental profile of Jordan Strauss.

"You said they met up last night?" Rossi looked over at Carrington again.

The brunette nodded, "Jordan said Linnea showed up at the bereavement group meeting."

"That's not a conversation that you have in a room full of half-strangers," he mused. "They would've gone somewhere more private—but not too private. Dani's a smart girl; she wouldn't go somewhere secluded with a stranger."

"She knew Linnea," Carrington piped up. "She told me that Linnea was part of the group, for a while. Had some kind of traumatic loss herself. So there is a level of trust there."

Rossi hummed. That didn't help—but it didn't necessarily hurt, etiher. "Still, if this Linnea Charles was asking about the FBI, do you think Jordan would remain cautious?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely," Carrington was adamant. "Especially after—"

She stopped short. Her eyes darted to the corner of the room again, her voice becoming lower and slower, "After all that's happened, with her mother."

Cruz's expression became pained as he realized the connection. Rossi shook his head—he'd known about the reporters hounding Erin's kids after her death (hell, he'd even threatened a few of those vultures, whenever they'd approached the kids in his presence). However, something in Carrington's delivery implied that her first thought hadn't been about those particular reporters—he'd have to come back to that, later. Right now, he needed to find Dani.

"So, she'd go somewhere less open than a support group meeting, but not entirely secluded," Cruz set them back on track.

Rossi was tapping his chin with his thumb, brows furrowed as he tried to remember.

_Human beings are creatures of habit—that's why they get caught, even the best of them. They seek the familiar, the comforting—_

Comforting. Jordan might be visiting a support group, but even after telling her story, she'd feel drained, in need of comfort. She would have a ritual, something mundane enough to help her settle back into the world around her, yet significant enough to ground her to the loss itself. Something connected to her mother.

He looked up at Carrington again, "Where did Erin attend most of her AA meetings?"

"I…" Carrington's first reaction was to deny knowing, but she stopped herself, wracking her brain. Strauss often gave her the location of her meeting, just in case something happened and she needed to be reached immediately. "Um…Saint…Michael's. She liked the church. Said it was beautiful."

Rossi was nodding in agreement—he'd been to the church before, too, when Erin received her one-year chip, though he couldn't remember the name or where it was exactly. "That sounds right."

"And she liked the coffee shop that was right down the street," Carrington continued. She gave a slight smile, "Used to joke that she'd traded one addiction for another—she went there a lot, sometimes even when she didn't have a meeting."

Carrington's eyes flew open as she realized the connection, "Coffee. Jordan said she was meeting Linnea for coffee."

Rossi merely nodded. Cruz already had his cellphone out, dialing a number. He informed the analyst on the other end of the call to look into Saint Michael's support groups, and to see what coffee shops were nearby.

"We've got a list," Cruz announced to the other two in the room, hanging up and glancing at his phone again. "They're sending it to me now."

He read the list aloud, but Carrington merely frowned. "No, none of those sound right. Most of the time, Erin had her own travel mug that she brought in…but sometimes, if she forgot it at home, she'd have one of their paper cups, ya know? I can't…I can't remember the name, though—but I know that it wasn't one of those. I'd know it again, if I heard it or saw it."

Rossi ran his hand through his hair in frustration—if Cruz wasn't being such a boyscout, they could have already ditched Jordan and Linnea's financials, seen where their last purchases were. Coffee had to be bought, and unless they paid with cash, they'd leave a trail.

Carrington was calling Jordan again—and even though every previous attempt had been met with failure, she still held onto nervous hope, biting her lip as her forefinger tapped out an anxious beat on the back of her phone.

"Jordan." The urgency and relief mixed into her voice made Cruz and Rossi stand absolutely still. "Where the hell have you been?"

* * *

_**A Few Hours Earlier.**_

_**Java the Hutt. Washington, D.C.**_

Jordan Strauss knew who Maeve was. Linnea could see the truth as plain as day, screeching from every pore of Jordan's body.

"Oh gods," was all the younger woman said, her face ghastly pale. "It was there the whole time—all the details, but I didn't…I never even realized. I mean, you mentioned her stalker, but never the BAU, and I…as sad as it sounds, those types of cases are all too common and I never….I just never saw it."

"Jordan, you're not making sense," Linnea felt a prickle of fear deep in her belly. The fact that this relative stranger held such a connection to her sister—it was unsettling. It only furthered the feeling that something was definitely wrong with this whole thing.

The redhead suddenly snapped back, as if she'd never even experienced the moment of horrified realization, her green eyes focusing intently on Linnea again, "I'm still not sure what this has to do with David Rossi."

Now it was Linnea's turn to sit back, her eyes flitting away. "My mother was dying of cancer whenever Maeve was killed. My parents had been preparing for my mom's funeral, and there were the medical bills, of course—but Maeve was just a total shock, you know? She's the baby, we weren't expecting anything like that to happen to her, even…even with the stalker."

Jordan gave a small hum. Her mother had died before her, that was the way of things—but it didn't lessen the grief or mitigate the sheer shock of how she was ripped away from them.

"So, yeah—having someone step in, to take care of Maeve's…of the financial side of things. But still—this total stranger steps in, pays for her? I had to know. Except…"

"Except?" Jordan prompted, her eyebrows raising slightly.

"You see, David Rossi paid for everything—but I didn't reach his name until after I did some digging. When he made the arrangements, he did it all in someone else's name."

"Whose name?" Jordan Strauss already knew the answer. It was plain as day.

"Another FBI Agent. Dr. Spencer Reid."

* * *

"_What's past is prologue."_

_~William Shakespeare._


	39. Drops in the Bucket,Weights on the Scale

**Drops in the Bucket, Weights on the Scale**

"_We are products of our past, but we don't have to be prisoners of it."__  
__~Rick Warren._

* * *

_**Washington, D.C.**_

These boots were made for biking, not hiking—and the arches of Jordan's feet were trying to tell her so, but she continued her blind rampage through the winding city streets, not sure if the tears in her eyes were from fear or the biting cold wind that whipped around corners with surprising force.

_Spencer_. Jordan had known that was where the conversation would end, from the moment Linnea revealed that she was Maeve Donovan's sister.

_Maeve_. Of course, Maeve—how could Jordan have been so oblivious, so blind to the truth that was staring brazenly into her face the whole time?

Spencer had talked about Maeve. Not in the beginning—Spencer was a deeply private person (and given the circumstances surrounding Maeve and her stalker, Jordan had understood the reason for his secrecy), and though he and Jordan enjoyed an easy friendship, they weren't the closest of friends.

How long had Jordan known him now—two years, three? They'd met during the Replicator case—the case that would take her mother's life—when Jordan had visited the office at Quantico. A few weeks later, they'd met again. Spencer had been giving a lecture at the National Museum of Crime and Punishment, and as a member of the museum world, Jordan had been in attendance. They'd struck up an instant bond of camaraderie, both seeing some mutual oddness in the other that seemed so familiar. But they didn't spend a lot of time together—after Erin's death, Spencer had been kind enough to call, to send a card, to check in from time to time, and when Jordan finally slipped out of the initial haze of mourning, they'd gone to a few foreign film festivals or art exhibits or museum openings (and one too-weird-to-be-described-or-understood Halloween party, which they still laughed about).

However, they had met once before Maeve's death, and Jordan had to pry the truth from him (because she'd noticed, she'd noticed and known what his glowing face and perpetual smiling had meant, and she couldn't resist the chance to tease him and also rejoice in his happiness, as any friend would do). It had been adorable, his hesitancy, his delight in being able to talk about Maeve warring with his concern for her safety and his own sense of decorum.

Less than two months later, he would be speaking freely about Maeve—and crying freely, too.

This time, Jordan hadn't run off the second Linnea dropped a name. This time, she stayed put, kept calm, asked more questions.

Linnea had explained why Spencer Reid was of interest to her—and Jordan had known it had to be a lie. Not a lie that Linnea had made up, but a lie that had been given to her as truth, as fact, as certainty.

So Jordan had made Linnea swear not to repeat the story to anyone else—at least not until she could verify it for herself.

Except she hadn't gone off to verify anything. She'd spent the last hour and a half simply roaming the streets, trying to wrap her brain around all the information flying her way at once.

This felt bad. This felt like the kind of thing you saw in movies, in books—in things that weren't real. And yet, Jordan knew firsthand that these things _did_ happen, and had happened. It had happened to her mother, after all. She hadn't gotten an official briefing on her mother's death, but David Rossi had told her the truth—she was certain that there were some parts that he kept hidden from her, but Jordan knew the man well enough to know that he'd done that out of compassion, and she understood that.

And in a way, that was why she was trying to shield David Rossi from this current accusation. It was only fair—he'd shielded her and her siblings, or at least tried his damnedest, and now, for once, the tables were turned.

Except now, Spencer was included into the mix. And the implications were beginning to overwhelm her.

She should call David Rossi. She knew she should. She was out of her league. Yet still she pushed her legs double-time, block after block, crosswalk after crosswalk, as if trying to outrun the inevitable.

There had to be an answer, a better way. There had to be.

She just hadn't found it yet.

After ninety minutes, she still hadn't found it. Her cheeks and nose were stinging with cold, her feet were screaming for a rest, and her hair was an unruly tangle thanks to the wind.

_At some point, when you refuse help, you stop being a hero and just end up being an ass._ That was a lesson her mother had taught her—a lesson that Erin Strauss had learned at a painful price. She'd tried to save herself from her alcoholism for years, tried to cure herself through her own ways, and ended up so enmeshed in her addiction that it had taken her marriage and almost her career as well.

Jordan finally stopped. She didn't even try to gain her bearings as she slipped her phone out of her jacket and turned it back on.

Multiple texts and missed calls from Carrington, the only person who knew what was going on and what she was doing.

Yep, she'd officially crossed the line in to straight-up assery.

With a deep breath, Jordan's thumb hovered over the redial button, preparing herself for the bollocking that was definitely coming her way, which she undoubtedly deserved.

The phone began to ring. Incoming call from Carrington.

She answered, "I'm sorry. I'm OK."

"Jordan." Carrington's frustration was evident, but her sense of relief was just as palpable, and that caused Jordan a pang of regret. "Where the hell are you?"

"I'm…I don't know. I'm still in the District. But I promise, I'm OK. I just—I need to find Dave."

"He's here. With me."

"With you?"

"Yeah. After you didn't answer for over two hours, I felt like I had to bring in reinforcements."

"What?"

"Jordan, you went MIA—"

"No, I went dark—because I knew you'd flip and pull a stunt like this, and I'd really rather not have a whole fucking SWAT team show up—"

"Absolutely not. I refuse to spend all night and half the day worrying over you, only to have you throw it all on me—"

"Carrington, please." The fight suddenly left Jordan, as quickly as it had come. "I can't do this right now. Please. I just need to talk to Dave."

She heard a deep sigh on the other side of the line. "Fine. He's right here."

"Dani?" David Rossi's voice was so full of worry that Jordan couldn't stop the tears that immediately sprang to her eyes (hadn't this man been through enough?). "Dani, where are you?"

"I'm OK. I don't really know where I am…." She took a moment to look up, searching for cross streets. "I'm at the corner of Hanover and 14th."

14th Street. She should have known that, like a homing pigeon, she'd end up here. It boasted landmarks like the Tivoli Theatre and the National Aquarium (places her parents had taken her often as a child), and was home to museums such as the Armenian Genocide Museum of America, the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, and the National Museum of American History. Her first college internship had been with the Holocaust Memorial Museum, and it was a childhood trip to the American History museum that had cemented her desire to go into the field of history preservation. These were her safe houses, her sanctuaries, her places of worship—it made perfect sense that although her conscious mind was simply wandering, her subconscious was drawing her back to the sights that always felt like home and the places that always brought her some sense of peace.

"Dave, I tried—I thought it was just some rabbit trail, some reporter blowing smoke. I thought I could make it go away."

"What, Dani? Make what go away?"

"It's deep, Dave. I'm sorry. I thought I could—"

"It's OK, cara. I know." The term of endearment shot another pang of guilt through her heart—Dave had been a second father to her and her siblings, probably even before their mother's death. And now, when he needed her most, she couldn't do a damn thing to help.

She sniffled back a sob, holding the phone away from her so that he couldn't hear her crying. Marshalling her emotions back under control, she put it back to her ear, "Look, I need to see you. I can come to Quantico—"

"I can get your clearance taken care of," he assured her. "But, Dani—where's Linnea? Is she still with you? Can she prove that she's who she says she is?"

"Whuh…what?" Jordan was stunned by the question. Then, she shook her head, "No, she is Linnea Charles. I saw her picture, on the Washington Daily's website. I looked her up, checked her out. She's not…this is _real_, Dave."

"Good girl," he sounded proud that she'd taken the time to check the source. "Smart move. We're looking for her right now."

"We? As in the FBI?"

"Yes. She was supposed to call us—"

"She won't. And even if you show up at her office, she won't answer their questions. I made her promise."

"Jordan—"

"You'll understand soon. Just—I'll be there in an hour." Jordan glanced around, trying to gauge how far she was from her car (_take a cab back to the coffee shop_, her feet bellowed). "I'll tell you everything you wanna know then—but I'm not doing it over the phone."

There was a beat of silence, and she knew that David Rossi wasn't happy with this ultimatum, but he also knew she was stubborn enough that trying to fight it was a waste of time.

"Fine. Be safe. And get here as quickly as possible. This isn't a game, Dani."

"Trust me, Dave. I know." The winter wind suddenly seemed even colder. A chill rippled down her spine. "I know."

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Emilie Autumn was screeching in melodic rage as Sura Roza whizzed through the interwebs, her laptop screen switching between several windows of data (Shostakovich had to leave the room, _that horrible music_ was too much for him, and though Dawson had laughed in agreement, he was still here, leisurely sipping a cup of coffee as he took a few minutes to recollect himself).

Maeve. Not a very common name, though still not much to go on.

_Maeve + FBI_. Nothing.

_Maeve + Virginia_. Nada.

_Maeve + Behavioral Analysis Unit_. Zip.

_Maeve + Jennifer Jareau_. Big fat nothing.

_Maeve + Washington D.C._

_Oh, here we go._

Maeve Donovan, geneticist in the D.C. area.

"Hey," her voice was soft, barely heard over the music. "I think I might have found our Maeve."

Dawson was on his feet in a flash. "What've ya got?"

She read the basics aloud to him. Dawson's brow furrowed, "And how does she connect to the BAU?"

"Not sure yet. You're getting the answers in real time, my dearest." She was zipping through online articles and police reports. Suddenly, she stopped. "Oh."

"Oh, what?" Now Dawson was at her side, trying to make sense of all the things on the computer screen.

"Maeve Donovan was murdered. Apparently she had some kind of stalker."

"So she does fit in with Haley Hotchner and Erin Strauss," Dawson mused. He took a hesitant sip of his coffee, trying not to scald himself. "But which BAU member does she connect to?"

"I don't know. Maybe it'll say on her obit," Sura was clicking on another window, pulling up an online copy of Maeve Donovan's obituary, which had run in several local newspapers.

"Ho. Lee. Shit." She sat back, her eyes the size of saucers. "This just keeps getting weirder and weirder."

Dawson was skimming the obituary, trying to see what Sura had seen.

"Here," Sura pointed to a particular sentence. "Look familiar?"

_Maeve is survived by her sister Linnea Donovan Charles, and brother-in-law Daniel Charles…_

"Linnea Charles, that's—"

"The reporter we've been trying to get ahold of." Sura finished for him. After a beat, she added, "I don't believe in coincidences."

"Me either." Dawson's mouth formed a thin line. He headed out the door, down the hall where Jude and Jonas were currently holed up, watching interview videos. He entered the room without so much as a knock.

"Jonas, go get Keller. You two are going to pay a visit to Linnea Charles at _The Washington Daily_."

* * *

_**The Washington Daily Editorial Offices. Washington, D.C.**_

Linnea didn't want to be in the vicinity when the shit hit the fan with Desi Estes—she'd learned from experience that being the whistleblower wasn't the most favorable position, even in a newsroom (though, technically, it had been Karl who figured it out and pointed to Desi as the culprit). Besides, she her meeting with Jordan Strauss had only brought in more questions, and she needed to find a quiet place to clear her head. Honestly, she needed a strong drink, but it seemed a bit early in the day, so she mentally cast aside the idea to hit the nearest bar.

"Yo, Lin," Karl was making his way to her desk. "Who do you know at _The District Times_?"

"Uh, Johnny Adams. Why?"

"John Adams? He writes about politics and his name is John Adams?"

"Yeah, Salander. It's a great joke. Why do you need to know?"

"Because," Karl tossed a copy of the Times' morning edition onto her desk, where it landed with a satisfying slap. "Take a look at this."

"The article about the Quantico bombing?" She guessed. "I'm pretty sure there's nothing in there that we didn't also—"

Karl tapped his finger on one particular line. "They've got more than we do. They've got a definite time."

He wasn't lying. The article read: _Inside witnesses report that the blast went off at 8:04 a.m…._

"That's…very specific. How do they know this?" Linnea kept scanning the article, searching for clues.

"Dunno. But here's another interesting tidbit," Karl leaned in, keeping his voice low so that no one could overhear it. "That email you got? It came in at 7:59."

"Shit." Linnea sat down in her chair again, completely blown away by this new development. Johnny hadn't written this article, but he could get her to the reporter who had. "I need to talk to Johnny Adams."

"Yeah. You do." Karl shifted back to glance out the window. "And you probably need to do it now."

"What?" Linnea was on her feet, coming over to see what he was staring at.

"You see those two?" He pointed to a couple across the street, waiting at the corner for the crosswalk light to signal they could cross. "Feds. My guess is that the Fibbies got tired of waiting for you to call 'em back."

Linnea had been told that the FBI wanted to speak to her, once she'd called to check in after her meeting with Jordan. She'd known what they were looking for (or at least she thought she knew, if Jordan's predictions were true), and she'd also known that she couldn't give them what they wanted. Jodran Strauss had begged her to keep quiet, and god help her, she'd agreed. Something in the younger woman's urgent pleading had struck a chord—and like any good reporter, she'd learned a long time ago to listen to her gut.

Her gut told her that Jordan Strauss knew what she was doing, knew the cost of silence and knew that it was worth whatever she was protecting with it. So she'd conveniently forgotten to return the call. But apparently the Bureau wasn't the type to sit back and wait.

"How do you know they're federal agents?" Linnea studied the pair. The man was tall and lean, in grey slacks, a light blue button down, and a nicely-tailored navy peacoat. The woman was shorter, with a severe blonde bob that was slicked back, a juxtaposition to her partner's professional look with her skinny jeans, chunky leather booties, and loose-fitted white tee under a heavy black leather jacket. _She_ looked like a cop—the rough and tumble kind straight out of some edgy TV drama. Despite the general overcast of the day, they both wore aviator shades, and somehow, it made them seem more ominous.

"Because," Salander answered simply. "Back in Houston, I became rather familiar with the local FBI branch. Learned to spot 'em from a mile away."

She was moving back to her desk now, grabbing her coat and slipping it on, "I didn't know you were from Texas."

"I'm not."

"Karl Miramontz, you are a man of many lives."

"So was Jimmy Hoffa, and look how that turned out for him."

"Hmm. Point taken." She pulled her purse strap over her shoulder, grabbing her keys from the desk.

"They're crossing the street now," he informed her. "Better take the back staircase down to the parking garage, unless you want to meet them on the way."

"Excellent suggestion," she headed for the door. "I'll keep ya posted."

It wasn't an empty promise. Right now, Karl Miramontz was one of the few people she truly trusted. That was another lesson she'd learned—hold on tight to those people, and keep them in the loop at all times, because you never knew when a curveball was gonna come your way and land smack between your eyes. That's when you needed the loyal people the most, because they would take care of you when you were knocked out cold, and they'd get you back on your feet again when you came to.

"Hey, Lin?"

She stopped, turned around.

"I learned a long time ago it's better not to ask…but what the hell's going on?"

She took a deep breath. "Honestly? I'm not even sure right now."

"I'm not gonna tell ya how to live your life or anything, but—a word of advice. If you're gonna be dodging the Feds, you better know all the facts, and you better be doing it for a damn good reason."

Her eyes flicked involuntarily back to the photo on her desk—her and Maeve, smiling and happy, in their parents' backyard. It was Memorial Day, the last family get-together before the stalker, before the world changed, before her baby sister was stolen from her.

"Salander, I don't have all the facts yet—but I can assure you, I am doing this for the best damn reason there is."

* * *

_**MCC Van, Front Drive of Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Aaron Hotchner glanced at his watch again—the fourth time in the past ten minutes, by Spencer Reid's count.

The younger man sidled up to his unit chief. He didn't say anything, but they exchanged a brief glance—they were both worried, and both trying not to mention their worry aloud.

"He's David Rossi," Spencer kept his voice low, so no one else could hear.

Hotch understood the rest. _He's David Rossi, cat with ninety-nine lives and ninety-nine more. He'll land on his feet, he'll be just fine._

Trying to remain light, Hotch drolly intoned, "That's what I'm afraid of."

And Spencer understood the rest, too. _He's David Rossi, with a hair-trigger temper and a propensity to bite off more than he can chew, he'll give 'em hell and then some and maybe this time he'll go too far._

Spencer couldn't deny that David getting into even deeper trouble was a likely outcome. Still, he had to hold on to hope—it was all they had, at the moment.

His cellphone buzzed. He slipped it out of his sweater pocket, frowning slightly when he saw the name on the caller ID.

Why on earth was Jordan Strauss calling him? The timing was odd, and even if it wasn't, the method certainly was—he could count on one hand the number of times she'd actually called him, since like most of her generation, she preferred to text instead.

"Hello?"

"Spencer." Jordan's voice was a higher pitch than usual. She was talking slightly louder, too—if he had to guess, he'd say she was in her car, on Bluetooth. People always raised their voices when using speakerphone-based devices of any form.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm not exactly sure yet. I've already talked to Dave, but you need to know, too."

"Know what?" Spencer was shifting away, trying to find a more secluded spot. Hotch was already watching him with clinical curiosity, aware of something _not normal_ happening.

"Yesterday, a reporter contacted me. She thought I might have some kind of—I dunno, insider information—about the bombing. She was asking about the BAU. Today, she told me something else—she's Maeve's sister."

Spencer darted for the door. No way was he having this conversation in a room full of profilers.

He hadn't said anything for a few beats, so Jordan gently prompted, "Spencer?"

"I'm here." He wasn't sure what else to say. "I'm just—why do you think I need to know this?"

That sounded horrible. Thankfully, Jordan seemed to understand.

"Because the FBI's looking for her, right now. And…and she was saying some pretty crazy things. Things about you, about Dave, about the bombing—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—what things?" Spencer's heart began to hammer like a war drum.

"She…she said that you emailed her, yesterday morning. You tipped her off about the bombing."

* * *

"_I thought at the time that I couldn't be horrified anymore, or wounded. I suppose that's a common conceit, that you've already been so damaged that damage itself, in its totality, makes you safe."__  
~__Lionel Shriver._


	40. Another Turn of the Screw

**Another Turn of the Screw**

"_All roads lead to Rome, and there were times when it might have struck us that almost every branch of study or subject of conversation skirted forbidden ground."__  
__~Henry James__._

* * *

**_*Author's Note: This is an answer to a question posed by SpencerFTW (for some reason I can't reply to your review via PM?)...the question was "Does Reid even have an email?", and the point was made that our intrepid young doctor isn't exactly the hippest agent in the BAU when it comes to technology. Here's my answer: I honestly feel like the show itself has said something along the lines of him not having an email address (really, that aspect of the question is probably best directed to Annber03, whom I jokingly call my in-house Dr. Reidologist-and who, btw, is a damn good writer, if you haven't had the chance to already know that). However, basic Bureau policy would require him to have an official email-whether or not he used the thing (very often or at all) would be up for speculation, but he would at least have one that was established since his induction into the FBI.*_**

* * *

_**The Washington Daily Editorial Offices. Washington, D.C.**_

Jessalyn Keller slipped her aviators back on with a lightly disgusted sigh as she and Jonas exited the front door.

She hated reporters. Slimy, back-stabbing, lie-to-your-face, hide-behind-the-almighty-code-of-protecting-a-source, hopped-up-on-the-false-nobility-of-their-profession, high-horse riding _journalists_.

The fact that she'd dated one certainly didn't help. It had been over a decade, but it was one of those hellacious break-ups that stayed with a person, no matter the time or distance. She still got a sour taste in her mouth at the thought of him.

Linnea Charles was playing hard-to-get—and dammit, she was winning.

"Someone told her that we were coming," Jessalyn announced, rather unnecessarily.

"Yep," Jonas gave a heavy sigh, slipping his hands in his coat pockets as they reached the crosswalk.

Jess gave a low growl of frustration as she reached out to jab the button, alerting the crosswalk system that someone wanted to cross.

"Please wait." The automated voice commanded, followed by a high-pitched beep of warning.

"Don't have time to wait," she informed the computer.

One corner of Jonas' mouth quirked into a wry smirk.

"Please cross." The disembodied voice spoke again, and the crosswalk lights changed to indicate that it was now safe to walk.

"Well, at least _someone_ is being accommodating today," Jonas intoned dryly. Right now, he was choosing to be amused with life, because if he didn't, he was going to shriek. They'd played a frustrating run-around with the _Daily_ staff, who'd all been deaf, dumb, and blind when it came to pinpointing where Linnea Charles had gone and exactly when she'd left. Jessalyn had been more than slightly aggressive towards the woman at the front desk, forcing Jonas to take on the role of good cop.

The interesting thing about Jessalyn Keller was that what she _didn't_ do was often more telling than what she actually did.

For example, she didn't behave unprofessionally, didn't stray from a basic set of questions, didn't accuse the staff of doing exactly what everyone knew they were doing. However, she also didn't infuse her demeanor with her usual warmth, that spark which put people at-ease and made them feel as if Jess Keller was a friend, someone they could trust. Instead, she'd let her cold tone and clinically direct questions say what her actual words could not: _I don't like you, I don't like what you're doing, and I don't want to pretend as if I do_.

There were other things, too. Like the fact that she was the only person who hadn't asked him a single question about his recurring fight with Jude. And again, it was what she didn't do that spoke volumes.

She didn't ask, because she'd hidden in plain sight for who-knows-how-long, pretending not to have any interest in Judith Eden outside of purely work-related issues (that should have been a red flag, honestly, Jonas felt his powers of observation were slipping, if he so easily missed just how carefully aloof Keller had always held herself about anything regarding or relating to Eden). She didn't ask, because she most likely already knew, via pillow talk.

Pillow talk. Such an odd concept to apply to his two coworkers—especially these two. A week ago, he would have sworn with absolute certainty that they barely tolerated each other, much less were sleeping together.

He needed to bite this bullet.

"I know," he kept his voice low and calm as they continued down the sidewalk. Clarifying, he added, "About you and Jude."

Jess ducked her head, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets as well. "I know you know."

"She told you?"

"She didn't have to. I could see it in your face, that morning after we found Tyler Harrison—at the police station. You were watching me like a hawk. Like a…like some kind of scientist. Like you'd never seen anything like me before. Like I was…some kind of riddle, or puzzle." The heels of her boots clipped along the sidewalk in double-time, her short legs keeping up with his longer strides. "And Jude…she was too cheerful. Putting on a brave face, pretending nothing was wrong. I love her for it, but god, it's such an easy read."

"So you do love her?" The hopeful expectancy in his voice was surprising.

Jess looked up at him, her eyes hidden by her shades, but the downward quirk of her eyebrows still relaying her confusion and surprise.

"Of course I do, Joe. I wouldn't have risked all this if I didn't."

He knew what _all this_ meant—their jobs, their careers, their professional reputations. They both had just as much to lose. Jessalyn Keller was a methodical, logical person—if she was taking this risk, it was only because she'd weighed every option, every possible outcome, and had decided that it was worth it.

He felt a measure of relief—despite his fears for Jude's professional standing, his greatest concern had been the worry that Judith was deeply in love with someone who didn't feel the same way. She was still his best friend, and her heart was still a priority, and he still wanted her to be happy, to be loved as she so truly deserved.

"So?" Jess pushed gently, turning her gaze back to the sidewalk.

"So?" Jonas glanced over at her.

"So what are you gonna do about it?" Jess slipped the keys to the Bureau SUV from her pocket, unlocking the doors with a beep.

"Nothing, I guess." He answered easily, stopping at the passenger side, his head turning to follow Keller's trek around the front of the vehicle. "Not really my place to do anything."

He waited until she opened her door to open his own, so they were sliding in at the same time.

"I don't mean from a professional standpoint." Keller informed him. She started the engine. "You're Jude's best friend—she values your opinion, and despite the fact that she'd rather die than admit it, she also needs your approval."

Jonas ducked his head at the easy confession—it was true, they both knew it.

She threw the SUV into gear, gingerly easing her way out of the parallel parking space. Jonas squinted slightly as he looked out the passenger window.

This was his moment. He could prove himself, redeem himself. Jude was still his best friend, and he still wanted to be worthy of that friendship. He remembered his promise to her earlier that morning. "Well, I'm not gonna lie for you—but I won't stop you two from hiding, either."

Jess gave a small hum of understanding. Clearing her throat, she admitted, "That's why Jude didn't tell you, before. She…she didn't want it weighing on your conscience."

He gave a heavy sigh. "You know, sometimes I wish she wasn't so damn noble."

This earned him a huff of amusement. "It can be one of her worst traits, at times."

Even now, Jonas could hear the admiration and adoration in Jessalyn's voice. That was all the confirmation he needed—still, he couldn't help but gently warn, "I know…I know you've both considered the risks, and you know what you're doing. But for both of your sakes, please be careful. I warned Jude this morning—if I can figure it out, so can Dawson, and anyone else."

As if on cue, Jonas' cellphone rang—Dawson himself. He answered, putting it on speakerphone. "Keller and I are both here. Go ahead, sir."

"What'd you find out?"

"That journalists are still thick as thieves and just as morally corrupt," Keller answered dourly. "Charles wasn't there and no one could seem to even guess where she might be."

"Ah, the wall of silence," Dawson's voice was dry. "I'll send you her home address—maybe we'll get lucky."

"If she's not there, you want us to stake it out a little bit, see if she shows up?" Jonas offered.

"Maybe. Sura has four agents, I think, who still haven't been accounted for today. I might put you two on house-call duty for the rest of the afternoon, if they don't respond soon."

"Sir," Jess hesitated, glancing over at Jonas with a fearful expression. "I can't…I don't think—I'm going dark again, and I'm going down fast."

There was a moment as Jack Dawson considered her words. Jessalyn Keller had clinical depression, a secret that she'd shared with her team a little over a year ago, and since then, they'd developed their own language to communicate her moods and her needs. _Going dark_ meant that she was spiraling into a deeper depression than usual (something not uncommon after a particularly hard and draining case, like their last one), and _going down fast_ meant that her fatigue and the stress of the current case weren't helping—her desire to curl into a little ball and forget the world was pushing into focus, making it harder to do the work that needed to be done. He knew what to expect soon—her razor sharp logic would still be there, but sometimes it would take her longer to make a mental leap, she'd be slightly hazy, slightly distanced, and she'd have to push herself to remain emotionally invested in the case. She'd also require a few more hours of sleep every night—a seemingly minor thing, yet often an unaffordable luxury when they were out in the field. She'd still be a good agent, but she wouldn't be at her best.

"How much have you got left in you?" Dawson asked quietly.

Jonas was watching her with careful concern. It had been a brave-as-hell move on her part, finally opening up to her colleagues about her condition, especially considering the stigma that still prevailed in this country when it came to mental health, and he'd be damned if he ever made her regret being courageous enough to share the truth.

The corners of her mouth turned downward as she contemplated the question, "A good two hours, maybe a little more. But then I will need to rest. I'll contact my doctor and see if there's anything I can do with my meds to help. But…I feel this one's gonna hit hard."

"Alright," Dawson didn't hesitate, didn't allow his tone to be anything other than calm and neutral, as if they were simply discussing the weather.

She glanced over at Jonas again, who gave a curt nod, silently thanking her for her honesty.

"I'm sorry." Jess was speaking to both of them.

Jonas merely reached out to give her arm a light squeeze of reassurance. "Nothing to be sorry about."

"He's right," Dawson piped up. "Do what you can for as long as you can, but don't push yourself too far. Jonas can take you back to the hotel whenever you're ready."

She nodded, looking somewhat chagrined. Even though he couldn't actually see her, Dawson knew that she still felt embarrassed by what she perceived as some kind of physical weakness. He wanted to assure her that was the farthest thing from the truth, but he knew that doing so would only make it seem as if he were coddling her, or worse, _pitying_ her, and Jessalyn Keller was not the kind of woman who wanted either.

"You should have the address now," Dawson switched gears. "Let me know what you find."

"Yes, sir." Jonas ended the call.

With another sigh, Jess shook her head, as if silently berating herself for her own condition.

"Stop," he commanded lightly. "Don't beat yourself up over something you can't even control."

"I have to be angry at someone," she informed him. "It's the only way to keep the heaviness at bay. Not that it's very helpful, either—you saw how I was at the newspaper. I was a hair shy of declaring nuclear war on that poor receptionist."

"She deserved it," Jonas assured her with a slight smile. He'd grown up along the North East Coast, where Keller's brusqueness wouldn't have been seen as rude or even out of the ordinary—however, his partner was a Southern belle, through and through. She'd probably already imagined her mama's horrified face at such "uncalled for" behavior.

"We're not done talking about the stuff with Jude, are we?" Jess didn't even glance over at him, but her voice was heavy with knowing.

"You've been secretly fooling around with my best friend behind my back for I-don't-even-know-how-long. So yeah, we're definitely not done talking about this," he pushed himself to infuse his tone with playful teasing, and she gave a relieved smile at the lightness of his response. Sobering slightly, he added, "But we're not gonna talk about it now. We will close this case, just like we always do. And we will have our post-case party, just like we always do. And then, when everyone else goes home, Jude will stay to hang out and talk away the rest of the night with me and Lise, just like we always do. But this time, you're gonna be with her. And _then_ we'll talk about this stuff, as you put it."

Keller's smile widened into a grin. "Deal."

Jonas smiled as well. Then, glancing back at his phone, he found the text from Dawson with Linnea Charles' home address. "Alright. Guess it's time to start making house calls."

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

David Rossi was waiting outside the main entrance when Jordan Strauss pulled up. Her stomach did another flip-flop of fear—her anxiety had been mounting with every minute that brought her closer to Quantico, and simply giving her name to the Marine posted at the edge of the barricade had shot such a huge dose of adrenaline into her body that she thought she might pass out.

Yep. Definitely a reason why she worked in a nice, quiet, uneventful museum and not in the world of federal agents and Marines and conspiracy theories.

"I'm sorry," she hadn't even fully gotten out of her Jeep yet. "I thought I could—I didn't want to make it a bigger deal than it already was and I've just made a mess of it all—"

Dave didn't even let her finish her sloppy apology, simply moving forward and wrapping her into a fierce hug. He could feel her draw a skittering breath, as if she were holding back tears.

_Oh, Erin. She's so much like you in so many ways._

"It's OK, Dani." He reassured her gently. "I know why you did it—it was a good reason, even if the result was—"

"Less than stellar?" She pulled back, finishing with a wry grin. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, but she was easily retreating into her armor of snark and sarcasm. That was a trait that all three Strauss children shared—his own son, Christopher, had an innate ability to turn everything into a grand joke, even the direst of circumstances. Erin used to claim that he got it from his biological father (_irreverent attitude—that has David Rossi written all over it_), but the fact that the other two children, which were hers but not his, also possessed this trait only further proved that it was, in fact, down to Erin Strauss herself.

He grinned as well, still wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he led her to the door. She halted, pulling him back, further away from the physical manifestation of the intangible agency.

"Dave—I think you should know what's going on, before—I don't want you to hear all of this for the first time in a room full of other people."

The fear that he'd been pushing down for over an hour now prickled back into his gut, "What is it, Dani?"

He was momentarily distracted by the sight of Spencer Reid's lone lean form hurrying across the grounds, white clouds of smoke billowing from his mouth as he came towards them.

"I got here as soon as I could," he announced breathlessly, holding up his phone in way of explanation as he continued speaking to Jordan. "I just got your text."

"It's OK." Jordan assured him gently. "We haven't gone in yet."

"How the hell do you fit into all of this?" Rossi stared at the young doctor in a mixture of surprise and unease.

Reid took another deep breath, his eyes wide with certainty. "I think this UNSUB's picked up where John Curtis left off. And this time, he thinks he can frame me for the bombing."

* * *

_**John Adams' Office. The District Times Editorial Suite. Washington, D.C.**_

Despite his prestigious name, John Adams looked more like an absentminded community college professor than a journalist whose think-pieces had made him a local celebrity, with more than one Pulitzer quietly tucked among the overflowing bookshelves of his office. His hair was a bit too long and just shy of being completely unkempt, his tie was loose and the top button of his shirt was undone. He had a mustard stain on the hem of his sleeve, and his sweater-vest made him look fifteen pounds heavier than he actually was (though, given his stick-figure, it probably actually helped to make him look like less of a caricature). He wore thick, round glasses (_serial-killer glasses_, that's what Maeve would've called them—_watch any movie or TV show, the killer always wears round glasses_) and even though his clothes were office-attire, they gave the distinct aura of being slightly out of style. His manner was quiet, almost apologetic at times, as if he was aware of the impression he made on other people and regretted it. Yet somehow, he retained the easy air of a man who is secure in the knowledge that his brain is his most important asset, whose brilliance somehow blinded other people to his obvious physical shortcomings, or at least made them more tolerable.

Linnea had the good grace to wait until he closed his office door, though her impatience wouldn't let her wait a second more, "I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here."

"Well, I've seen your husband, so I know you're not here for a vile assignation," he returned easily.

She smiled at the quip, taking the seat that he motioned to. "No, nothing as tawdry as all that—but it is something that requires the same level of…delicacy."

Now she had his full attention. He sat down, swiveling his chair to fully face hers. "My, my, the plot thickens. I would ask for you to tell me everything at once, but I do love a well-built story. So please, proceed at your own pace."

Linnea pulled out the morning edition of _The District Times_, setting it on his desk.

"Ah, the bombing at Quantico." He sat back, suddenly less enthused. "That's not mine, I'm afraid."

"I can read a by-line, Johnny. I'm well aware that you didn't write it. But I'm betting you know the guy who did—this Todd Wilkes guy."

"Yeah, Todd's a pretty decent fellow." Something in the way John shrugged implied that he didn't particularly regard Todd's writing abilities with any high esteem, though he seemed to forgive him for it—after all, they couldn't all be ringside philosophers.

"I need to speak to his source for this story."

Now Johnny's eyes lit up with amusement, "Tut-tut, Linny. You know better than to ask such a thing."

"The fact that I am asking such a thing would imply that I don't know better, Johnny."

He chuckled at her dry retort, shaking his head slightly, "I don't see why this would be of such great interest to you. I mean, you're got your own insider—how else could you've known about the boom in the first place?"

"You guys got the email, too?" Linnea hadn't actually checked to see whom Desi had forwarded the email to.

"Jesus, Lin, you should know—you sent the thing."

"Yeah, actually I didn't—but that's another story for another time."

"Now _that's_ a story I wouldn't mind hearing," Johnny was leaning forward again.

"Get me in a room with Todd Wilkes and that becomes a story I wouldn't mind sharing."

He grinned again, all Cheshire cat. "You've always known how to twist things to your advantage—that's one of the things I admire most about you, Linny. Perhaps you should stop writing about politics and actually go into 'em."

"Are you gonna help me out or not? Trust me—you're gonna want to be on the right side of this, and you're gonna want to be in the room when we sort this all out."

"Heaven help me, I do trust you, Linnea Charles. Though by the time this all ends, I get the feeling that I'll be wishing I hadn't."

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

You could have knocked David Rossi over with a feather by the time Jordan and Spencer finished telling him all the details and connections between the three of them and Linnea Donovan Charles.

"This isn't good," he declared, stating the screaming obvious.

"What do we do?" Jordan asked. She and Reid were looking at the older man with such fearful trepidation that he had to smother the impulse to wrap them both into a hug.

"I don't know," he admitted. He glanced over at Reid again, "So…what? We think this guy is intentionally making a connection between you and Maeve's sister to bring your relationship with Maeve into light? To use it as some kind of motive?"

"I don't see how it could be anything else," Reid was a little calmer now, allowing his logic to take over and subdue his emotions. "Unless the UNSUB chose Linnea Charles by sheer coincidence."

"Too big of a coincidence," Jordan piped up.

"I have to agree with you," Rossi gave a slight nod, though his tone and expression implied that he really wished he didn't have to agree—that there really was a way to prove it was just a coincidence, nothing more.

The young woman bit her lip, considering her words carefully before slowly informing them, "Linnea…won't tell. She promised."

Rossi sighed. "You'd be surprised how quickly those promises break when someone's looking down the barrel of Federal charges."

"They'd have to catch her first," Jordan became a little more forceful. "We made a game-plan. She's going to dodge the FBI until we have something more solid."

"Dani, there are agents at her office right now," Rossi informed her, warring between frustration at her antics and adoration at the reason behind them.

"I know." Noting Rossi's surprised expression, Jordan explained, "She called me. Told me that she'd managed to get out of the office just before two agents showed up to question her."

"Sweet Jesus in short-pants. Now she's basically evading the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

"She's doing what she has to." Jordan shot back.

It took every ounce of self-control for David Rossi to keep his voice gentle, "Dani, you can't go around playing chase with the Federal government. They'll reach her eventually, and by then, they'll have a nice, long list of charges to slap on her, and she'll be forced to tell them—"

"She won't. I know she won't."

"When you spoke to Carrington last night, you didn't even know Linnea's last name," Rossi pointed out, rather bluntly.

Jordan's brows shot downward and her mouth formed a thin line—the same look her mother used to give whenever she knew that the facts might be tainted but her cause was morally right.

"She knows who Spencer Reid is—what he was to Maeve," Jordan set her hands on her hips, giving a curt nod in Reid's direction. "She loves her sister, she'll do whatever she can to protect him, out of duty and honor and guilt. I _know_ her, Dave. I may not know her last name, but I know the important stuff—I know where she's coming from and I know where she's been."

These kids. They were surely going to be the death of David Rossi. He glanced back to Reid, whose pitiful expression informed him that even though he knew they needed to tell the truth, the idea of cracking open the still-healing wounds from Maeve's murder wasn't exactly a pleasant one.

"We have to say something," Rossi sighed regretfully (the irony of the fact that he, Mr. Throw-Out-the-Rule-Book, was the one doing the "proper" thing was not lost on him in the least). "Cruz already knows something's up, and he's not just going to forget about it or let it slip under the rug. And even if he didn't—if the Flying Js find out—and they will, no doubt about it—and they figure out that we knew and didn't tell 'em, it's gonna look real bad for us. Right now, we don't have anything to hide—"

"But if we hide this, it's going to look even worse than it actually is," Reid finished, still not thrilled by the truth of the matter. With a heavy sigh of his own, he headed to the front entrance, ready to get this over with as soon as possible.

Jordan hurried after him, easily slipping her hand in his as a gesture of solidarity. She cast a look over her shoulder, back at Rossi.

_I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen._

He gave a small smile, trying to silently reassure her that this wasn't her fault. And truth be told, it wasn't.

However, that didn't do a damn thing to quell the stone of dread and intuition that was growing in his gut.

There was no way that this could end well.

* * *

"Wait…so lemme get this straight," Jack Dawson pinched the bridge of his nose again, in a mixture of confusion and frustration (they were literally giving him a headache_, dear god…_). Matt Cruz had pulled him aside, brought him to this little room where Jordan, David, and Spencer had been waiting with Cruz's assistant, Carrington. Now they were all huddled together, Cruz and Carrington keeping to the sidelines, letting Dawson ask all the questions. He pointed to Jordan, "You met with a reporter."

He then moved to Spencer, "Who happens to be the sister of a woman you knew, who has since been murdered."

The finger now pointed at Rossi, "Whose funeral you paid for, in Dr. Reid's name."

"So far, so good," Rossi nodded.

Dawson returned his attention to Jordan Strauss. "And this reporter, Linnea Charles, informed you that she had some kind of…insider information about the bombing."

"Yeah," Jordan gave a quick nod, glancing over at Dave for confirmation again (she hadn't wanted to tell the whole story, hadn't wanted to tell any of it, but she'd been outvoted). "She, um, told me that she'd gotten an email, telling her that the bombing had taken place, and that she should get there, to get the scoop, as it were."

"OK." Dawson wasn't sure where this was going—he still wasn't even sure that he'd gotten all the connections down correctly.

"She claims the email came from Dr. Reid." Rossi added, his low tone only adding to the seriousness of the statement.

"_Claims_? Have we seen actual proof?" Dawson looked at the three people standing before him.

"Well, no," Jordan Strauss looked slightly surprised by the question. "I mean, why would she lie about it?"

"Why does anyone do what they do?" Dawson asked tiredly. He took a moment to look pointedly at Spencer Reid, "Not that I'm dismissing her claim, mind you. As soon as we can track down Mrs. Charles, we'll ask to see that email."

Jordan's big green eyes flicked away, for a fraction of a second, her lips pursing ever-so-slightly. However, Jack Dawson saw it all—and more importantly, he knew what it meant.

_Dammit, she's the reason Linnea Charles is in the wind. _Keller and Shostakovich had gone to Linnea's house, but no one was there. They'd already suspected game afoot, but Jordan's body language confirmed it. Linnea Charles was deliberately giving them the slip.

"And where is Linnea Charles, right now?" Dawson turned the full force of his focus onto the young woman.

She gave a small shrug. She seemed as genuinely unsure of the answer as he was.

"And who was her sister?" Dawson looked up again, over at Reid. He already knew the answer, thanks to Sura Roza's skills, but he kept that knowledge to himself—he needed to know just how far he could trust these people.

Dr. Reid visibly paled, swallowing deeply before answering quietly. "Maeve. Maeve Donovan."

So the young man was choosing honesty. And yet his reaction informed Dawson that he was also aware of how prejudicial this revelation could be.

"Maeve. She was more than just a friend, wasn't she?" Dawson's voice was careful, quiet, lined with compassion.

Spencer Reid looked at the ground. "She was the love of my life."

Jesus, Jack Dawson physically felt a pang at the statement. Thank god above Jude wasn't in here—she'd already have Reid wrapped in a blanket, shooting daggers in Dawson's direction for hurting the poor boy with the puppy eyes.

"Well, I can appreciate how much it took for you to come forward with this," Dawson sighed. "I won't pretend that it's good news—but something tells me that y'all already knew that."

Rossi gave a hum of agreement.

Dawson shook his head, "We're going to have to look into this. That's all I can say at this point—except for thank you. Thank you for coming forward."

The odd look passing through Jordan Strauss' eyes said that she still wasn't sure that they'd made the right decision. Not that Jack Dawson could blame her for it. After all, it might not have been the right decision at all. Only time would tell.

* * *

"_No, no—there are depths, depths! The more I go over it, the more I see in it, and the more I see in it, the more I fear. I don't know what I don't see—what I don't fear!"__  
__~Henry James__._


	41. Ebb and Flow

**Ebb and Flow**

"_But why, why, why can't people just say what they mean?"__  
~__Graeme Simsion._

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"What up, Guv?" Judith Eden easily caught up with Jack Dawson, who was leaving the room into which he'd been crammed with Cruz, Carrington, Rossi, Reid, and Jordan Strauss. Eden held a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee in her hand, proof that she was returning from a visit Sura Roza's room.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, just the thought of telling you makes me tired," he admitted.

Taking one last sip from her coffee, she offered the cup to him, which he gladly took.

"It's hot," she warned. He still winced when he took the first sip. She rolled her eyes, "I _told_ you."

"Yeah, yeah." He didn't give the cup back. She hadn't expected him to. They both continued their trek back to the room where Jude had been watching interview tapes. "Listen, I think I'm gonna send you back to the hotel."

"Now, sir?"

"Yeah. Someone else can watch those tapes and read those transcripts. Jonas has already dropped Jess off at the hotel—"

"Bad day?" Jude's face contorted in concern. The whole team was aware of Jess' depression, and they all knew that if Jess was turning in early, it was a sign of a spiral.

"Beginnings of one, I think. I told her to rest as much as she can—once the case picks up more traction, we won't be able to afford letting her go early, but until then, I don't see any reason in taxing her out completely."

Jude hummed in agreement. "So…what about Jonas?"

"He's on his way back now. Claims he's good to go for a few hours."

"Well, if Vichie can pull a few more hours, then I certainly—"

"Jesus, Jude, this isn't a pissing contest. You need the rest and honestly, given this new set of circumstances, I can't count on you to be entirely impartial."

Judith stopped walking. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Dawson stopped as well, turning back to her. "Jude, it's about Spencer Reid. He may be the one who tipped off the press about the bombing. And if he is, we're gonna have to figure out why, and what that means in regards to his level of involvement with the bombing itself."

"Oh." Jude glanced away for a moment. Then she looked down at the floor, rubbed under her nose with her index finger (her tell, whenever she was holding back a comment), then gave a small, curt nod, looking back up at her team leader, "You're right, I can't even pretend to be impartial. Though at this point, I'm not sure Vichie can, either."

"I know. My ship's sinking like the damn Titanic and I don't even have a roll of duct tape."

She grinned at that, her eyes sparkling once again. "Sura'd love to hear you making that reference."

"Be sure to tell her. Brighten her day."

"That I will, sir." Jude was moving again, and they continued down the hall in tandem. She didn't argue, didn't try to prove that she could do the task—and Jack understood that it wasn't because she didn't believe that she could, but rather because she knew that he had enough to deal with, and squabbling with a team member certainly wasn't something he had time for.

"You know I'd win, don't you?" She asked, conversationally.

"Win what?"

"The pissing contest. If ever there were one between me and Vichie."

"Of course. I'd put all my money on you."

She was grinning like a shark again as she opened the door to the room where she'd spent most of her day watching interview videos. "Good choice, Jackie boy."

He waited in the hallway, one hand in his pocket, the other still clutching the cooling coffee, which he was leisurely sipping. She stepped out of the room again, slipping into her overcoat and adjusting the collar.

"Tell Keller hi for me." It was a joke, a jab—he knew how little the two women got along.

As intended, it hit its mark—Eden merely rolled her eyes and gave a slight huff of amusement. "Sure thing. Then we'll paint each other's toe nails while watching Project Runway."

He smiled sweetly. "Sounds nice. Great bonding time."

"Sod off, will ya?" She gave him a light spat, bordering on a shove. He laughed, holding the coffee away from himself so that it wouldn't spill.

"Thanks for the cuppa, love," he feigned his best Artful Dodger cockney accent—the one that always made Jude cringe.

And it didn't fail this time, either—he saw her shoulders bunch together as she walked away, as if she'd just heard nails on a chalkboard. Wordlessly, she flipped him the bird as she continued down the hall.

He laughed and she turned to give one last look of mischievous disapproval over her shoulder.

God, he hoped all of this was wrong—for Dr. Reid's sake, of course, but for Jude's especially. Tyler Harrison's brutal and unsolved murder had cracked her, and this case was beginning to test the edges of those breaks, in the worst of ways. Jude couldn't lose another boy again, not this soon after Tyler. Spencer Reid wasn't a child, but he spoke to the mother within Judith Eden—Jack could see that, plain as day.

Keller sinking into a depressive episode, Shostakovich losing his famous sense of certainty, Eden still hung up on a previous case. Jesus Christ. Please don't let anything happen to Roza.

* * *

_**MCC Van, Main Drive. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Derek Morgan stepped out of the Mobile Command Center, letting out a weary sigh as he dialed Penelope Garcia's number.

"Tell me something good," she answered.

"You and I are both alive, having this conversation."

"That's all you've got?"

"Babygirl, my poor heart remembers how scared it felt yesterday morning, when I realized that you were still inside that building and not answering your phone—so yeah, having you here and alive is a pretty damn good thing."

"I know." Her voice softened. "I'm sorry. I wasn't—I'm also very glad we're both alive."

"I know. I wasn't trying to reprimand you for it. That's not what I want."

"Oh, so you're saying you _don't_ want to spank me?"

It was such a complete turn-around that he burst into surprised laughter, "Whoa, there she is, ladies and gents! Penny Garcia, in all her wildly inappropriate glory."

She was giggling now, the sound of it made him grin in turn. Then he glanced back towards the parking lot, "Seriously, though, Babygirl—it didn't even hit me until half an hour ago that your car is still here, at Quantico. Do you want me to bring it to you?"

"I'm actually heading over to JJ's right now. We're taking turns with Henry, and I've got night shift, so Sandy can go see JJ."

"I can drive it to wherever you are, sweetness."

"Yes, but then I would need to drive you back to Quantico to pick up your own truck, which means I'd have to bring Henry along and I…I don't think he should see the building where his mommy works blown to bits. He's seen enough."

"Of course. Don't worry—I'm sure I could convince an Uber to drive me back out—"

"Morgan, that would cost you an arm and a leg—"

"Or I could get Savannah to help."

"No, it's fine. We'll try to figure it out tomorrow."

"OK," Derek Morgan began to get the distinct feeling that he was being pushed away. So, he tested that theory, "I can still grab some supplies for chocolate therapy—I could crash on JJ's couch for a while. I'm sure Henry wouldn't mind having another friend over to play with."

He could feel Penelope grinning, even though he couldn't see it—and he knew it was because she was imagining just what sort of trouble Henry and Uncle Derek would get into. Last time there had been a dinner at the LaMontagne house, Morgan and Henry had slipped away, returning with water guns and starting an all-out war in the back yard. However, Henry had defected to Uncle Spence's team, much to Derek Morgan's unending dismay.

However, she sounded regretful as she quietly said, "You should be spending the evening with your girlfriend."

Morgan felt a slight shock run through his chest—she was pushing him away. So he pushed back, "No, I should be with the one who needs me the most right now—"

"And that person is Savannah, whether she says so or not."

"Penelope, you're my best friend. She understands."

"Not as much as you think she does."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It's just…I'm tired." She sighed heavily, as if to prove her point. "I've got a lot going on right now, and I'm just…I just don't want to deal with all of this."

"All of this? What exactly is all of this?" He felt like Alice, falling in slow motion down the rabbit hole. Penelope—his Babygirl, really and truly his best friend—was pushing him away, shutting him out, literally telling him that she didn't have time to deal with _him_.

"Derek, I can't right now."

"That settles it. I'm coming to JJ's."

"No, you're not." She was forceful, perhaps more forceful than he'd ever heard her be (at least towards him). Then, more gently, she added, "You're not, Derek. You're going home, to your girlfriend, who has probably been worried sick over you for two days straight now, but it too afraid to admit it. I'm going to take the time to get out of my own head, and when that's all settled, I'll call you. OK?"

He clenched his jaw, setting, his hand on his hip as he looked out into the late afternoon sun. He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

"OK?" She prompted again.

"Fine. But for the record, I hate every bit of this."

"I know you do," she sounded apologetic. "I do, too. But I need this."

"I love you—and that's the _only_ reason I'm agreeing to this, you got that? Because you asked, and because I love you."

"You're a good man, Derek Morgan."

He bit back the urge to retort: _then why are you shutting me out?_ Instead, he bit his tongue—so hard that he was almost certain he'd drawn blood.

She didn't say she loved him back. He wasn't sure why that stood out, but it did. Normally, she would've returned the sentiment in a heartbeat.

So what had changed?

The answer scared him.

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Tarja Turunen was wailing her rock-operatic sorrow in full force when Sura Roza's computer popped up with another reminder to call Agent Benjamin Fuller.

Again. This would be her third call to him—the first two going unanswered and unreturned.

Another agent had returned her call forty-five minutes ago, making Agent Fuller the only person who had been completely unreachable.

She couldn't say that she was entirely surprised when she went back to his voicemail.

This time, she didn't leave a message. She hung up and dialed Jack Dawson.

"What is it, Sura?" He didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Benjamin Fuller. He's the only person who hasn't checked in today. I've called him three times, left two voicemail—no response."

"Who's his emergency contact?"

"Finding that now…um, Della Fuller. A mother, I think? I'll call her, see if I can get anything from her."

"Do. And go ahead and start digging a little deeper into Agent Fuller. If we can't track him down via phone within the hour, I want a team at his house."

"Yes, sir." She hung up, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she began to search through the life and times of one Benjamin Fuller.

* * *

_**Superior Suites. Dumfries, Virginia.**_

The room was quiet, except for the gentle sound of Judith's humming. Her arms were warm and weighted around Jess' frame, the vibrations rumbling from her own chest into her lover's back, comforting and gentle.

Jessalyn took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she simply soaked in the peaceful moment. It had been what she would call a dark grey day (that was a system she'd developed as a child, ordering her days according to colors—surprisingly, blue was for happiness, like the bright summer sky). They'd seemed to hit a wall of insurmountable scale as they continued to push through interviews and transcripts, without any single clue that pointed towards a possible lead—though, honestly, Jess was familiar enough with her condition to know that there didn't necessarily have to be an external factor to influence her depression. Still, the current situation certainly didn't help.

Earlier that day, before Jess had left with Jonas to find Linnea Charles (yet another fruitless attempt to make sense of the growing puzzle), Judith had noticed her withdrawn silence, as usual, and had spent the morning sneaking in moments of comfort—a quick, reassuring squeeze of the hand here, a cup of tea there, a smile when no one else was looking, warm and secret and filled with all the reassurance that Jess needed. However, as soon as Jess had left, there hadn't been any texts or contact of any kind—but as soon as Judith returned to the hotel, she'd shown up at Jessalyn's door, prying eyes and others' judgments be damned, to simply hold her.

Jess had been curled up in a little ball on the bed, too tired to even pull back the covers (thankfully Judith had the spare key to her room, so she didn't even have to get up to answer the door). Judith hadn't said a word, merely coming to the edge of the bed to gingerly slip off Jess' shoes before abandoning her own and crawling to the other side. She'd curled up around Jess' body, wrapping her in her arms and silently letting Jess know that she could fall for as long as she needed—she was already caught.

Judith didn't try to kiss her, didn't try to push past anything but the innocent embrace they currently shared—she never wanted the younger woman to feel that this was just about sex, or that she couldn't simply be vulnerable in front of her without being seen as a prime opportunity. Over the past few years, Judith had tried to show Jess that her looks and her sex appeal were the least of her attraction, though they were a wonderful addition.

"That's a pretty tune," Jess spoke quietly, after several minutes. Though her face had been blank, her mind had been following every note. "What's it from?"

"I haven't a clue," Judith admitted. "It's just something I made up, I suppose. It's what my heart sings when I'm with you."

"Shameless flatterer," Jess returned with a slight smile.

"You bring it out in me," her lover's voice was warm, lined with a smile of her own.

Jess removed her glasses, setting them on the bedside table before turning to face her partner. Judith shifted in response, their legs entwining as their arms pulled their bodies back together again, foreheads touching, eyes locked.

"What color?" Judith asked quietly.

"Grey. Dark grey."

"How dark?" Her brows shifted downward in concern.

"Almost black. Like the clouds during a tornado," Jess confessed. She'd learned a long time ago to not be ashamed in admitting her depression, not to Judith—previous boyfriends had often taken her condition as an affront, as if somehow they were the cause of her moods, as if her inability to be ecstatically happy every second of every day was a testament to how their love had failed, and how she'd failed to truly accept their love. But her current partner seemed to have a better understanding—that didn't stop Judith from trying to help, but it did keep Jess from feeling guilty and even more depressed when her condition overpowered her love's thoughtful attempts.

Right now, Judith's brown eyes were pools of worry, wide and limitlessly deep. The concerned lines around those orbs always made Jess want to kiss the corners of her eyes, to make those shadows magically disappear while silently thanking them for being there in the first place. Instead, she tilted her head upwards, placing a gentle kiss right between the dark brows which were currently knit in concern.

That was the part of Judith that made her both the best and the worst match for Jessalyn—her empathic personality, her innate ability to simply take on her lover's pain and sadness. It meant that Judith understood Jess' feelings easier than most, but it also meant that she felt those feelings as her own.

"You've been quieter than usual today," Jess pointed out gently, her hand coming up to trail the outline of Judith's face with her fingertips.

"I might have given away more than I should've," Judith admitted. She quickly added, "About myself—not about us."

Jess simply smiled—she honestly didn't care if anyone knew about them. The fact that they'd kept this secret for almost three years was proof in itself that it wouldn't affect their working relationship, which meant any argument from the higher-ups was completely null and void. Still, she worried over the fearfulness in her lover's eyes, "What do you mean?"

Judith sighed. "Agent Rossi—he followed me outside today. After the briefing."

"I know." Jess gave a small smile. "I saw him, when I was looking for you."

Now the Englishwoman smiled softly, too, as her hand came up, fingers wrapping gently around Jessalyn's wrist, keeping the younger woman's hand at the curve of her jaw. Her thumb lovingly rubbed the pulse point on that wrist, a silent gesture of gratitude—because she remembered how tenderly Jess had come looking for her, how Jess had merely stood beside her, quietly looking out at the grey sky, her elbow lightly touching Jude's elbow, letting Jude organize her thoughts before softly asking _are you alright, darling?_

_Darling_. It never sounded false or patronizing or anything less than the best, softest, sweetest thing in the world when Jessalyn Keller said it. They couldn't afford to hold each other, even when they thought no one was looking, but Jess' tone had been just as comforting as any embrace.

Jude drew an unsteady breath as she continued, "He wanted…he wanted to know why I was so flippant about the whole case—not his exact words, he was a bit more tactful than that, but you know how it is."

The blonde gave a hum of understanding. "So you told him."

Judith swallowed, her face shifting against the pillow in the smallest of nods. "And I think—I don't like people knowing. It's ammunition, in a way."

Jess didn't offer placations or whisper that she was overthinking it—instead she returned the favor that Judith had paid her so many times over, by simply listening and letting her lover speak her feelings without judging them. Though inwardly, she assured herself that Judith was the kind of person whom people fell in love with easily and quickly—no one who knew her secrets would ever use them against her.

But Jess had seen firsthand how Judith's empathic personality could be a weakness. Once, when they were traveling up into the mountains to see Jessalyn's parents for the weekend, they'd passed an eighteen-wheeler filled with pigs, presumably on their way to the slaughterhouse. One of the pigs had been screaming, as if in pain, and Judith had become a nervous wreck—she'd had to tuck her head between her knees, hands over her ears to muffle the sound, breathing heavy and eyes clouded with unshed tears (_my skin was hurting_, she'd later explained, _it's the injustice, and the helplessness I feel about not being able to stop it when something or someone's in pain_). It was then that Jess had realized just how easy it would be to break her lover's psyche—and it was then that she redoubled her efforts to protect Judith's heart as fiercely as if it were her own.

"I don't—I don't think Agent Rossi would ever be that kind of person," Judith admitted (and Jess understood what she meant by _that kind of person_—someone who would use Judith's secret as a weapon). "But still, you never know for sure until it's too late, do you?"

Jess gave a small, sympathetic hum. She kissed her mouth—lips closed, a deep but chaste kiss. Then she placed her hand on Judith's shoulder, lightly pushing her away. Judith understood, rolling over so that now her back was against Jess' chest, as the younger woman's arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer in a comforting embrace.

"Do you regret telling him?" Jess asked quietly, settling into the familiar molding of their two bodies.

Judith considered the question before answering. "I guess not. It doesn't really matter if he knows—it doesn't change how I feel."

Jess placed a kiss on the curve of the brunette's neck, an action which sent a shiver down her lover's spine. She continued leaving little flutters of kisses in that same spot, each one a gentle reminder (_I love you, I love you, I love you, I do_).

"Grey days are so exhausting," Judith sighed, closing her eyes.

"Agreed," Jess held her tightly. Judith reached out blindly behind her, her hand easily finding Jess' hip, which she gave an affectionate pat before simply letting it rest there.

"Let's just sleep for about six years," she decreed.

"And miss a single second of this?" Jess made a low noise of disapproval, sneaking in another quick kiss on Judith's neck. "I think not."

"Ah, yes. The climactic ending to another wildly exciting day at the Federal Bureau of Investigation—set in a glamorous hotel in the sprawling metropolis of Dumfries, Virginia," the older woman returned in her usual droll tone.

"Are you saying you wish that you were somewhere else?" Jess purred, her voice holding a challenge.

"Yes. With you." Judith was thoughtful for a beat. "Egypt. A hotel by the sea. Sands as white as those delicious thighs of yours. Curled up, just like this."

The blonde hummed warmly. "That sounds wonderful."

Judith gave her hip another pat. "Get some sleep, love. Dream of Egypt."

She didn't get up. Didn't move to set an alarm on her phone.

"You're…staying?" Jess' entire body stilled with shock for a moment—in all their time together, they'd never spent all night together while on a case in the field.

"Unless you'd like to try dragging my arse back down the hall," her partner returned, her flat tone belying her belief that such a feat was impossible.

Jessalyn Keller knew that she should protest, but she was too enamored—because she'd had a dark grey day, and Judith knew (from several years' worth of experience) that the best defense against grey days was the quiet comfort of being physically anchored to her lover's side, and because Judith Eden loved her too much to let something as insignificant as the FBI's Code of Conduct stand between the two of them, not when Jess needed her the most.

So instead, Jess snuggled up closer, the curve of her forehead resting against the back of Judith's neck, "Dreams of Egypt it is, then."

It was still a dark grey day. But as she felt her lover's body settle against her own, Jessalyn Keller felt the briefest of smiles.

Judith's ringtone shattered the stillness. Jess easily reached into the back pocket of Jude's jeans, slipping the phone out and handing it to her.

"SSA Eden." Her voice was professionally flat.

"We've got a possible lead, Jude." It was Jack Dawson, sounding more keyed-up than he'd been all day. "I'm gonna call Keller and wake her up, too—I want you to wait on her and drive back to Quantico together."

"Yes, sir." Jude was already sitting up—and action that made Jess sit up as well, her face lined with expectation.

"And Jude? Put on the lights and fly over here. We're rolling out in twenty minutes."

* * *

_**Benjamin Fuller's House, Rural Virginia. (6 miles north of Quantico)**_

Adelaide Macaraeg squinted as she set her hands on her hips, trying to quell the nervousness radiating through her body by distracting herself—the entry team was heading to Benjamin Fuller's front door right now, and as an evidence recovery specialist, she had to hang back until they gave her the all clear. Dawson had admitted that he wasn't even sure if he'd need her, but he'd asked her to come along, just in case. He hadn't wanted to waste a single second, and she understood that—if she were already on location, it would save them a good twenty minutes, in a case where every second counted.

She also saw that he was trying to establish a good working relationship with her—he could have asked O'Donnell to assemble some evidence recovery techs from Quantico (and in fact, there were three others here who were exactly that), but he'd made a point of asking her to head the team. He was recognizing her place as the head of evidence recovery for this entire investigation, and was giving her the due respect as such. She couldn't have cared less about such political niceties, but still, his effort was kind and she wouldn't be the bad guy in this scenario by refusing the offer. Besides, it meant getting to work a little more closely with Scott O'Donnell and Mateo Cruz, and she'd learned from firsthand experience that the best and easiest way to see a person's true character was to be with them in the field, where things went down hard and fast—and she felt that she needed to know these two men, know who they were and how they operated, because anything could happen in a case like this and it was best to have some kind of working knowledge of all the players and exactly how they played the game.

She made sure to keep the bulky standard-issue Bureau SUV between her and the house, like a shield, but she turned away slightly, taking in their surroundings.

The Fuller house was out in the sticks, as the saying went. The southern side of the property sloped into Quantico Creek—or more accurately, the inlet where the creek widened and fed into the Potomac River. Adelaide guessed it was about half a mile wide at this point, the water lapping lazily at the edges of the shore, dark and swollen from the recent rains. The sun was setting, embossing the top of the water with thick golds and streaks of deeper purples. She could see why someone would build a house out here—it was absolutely beautiful.

The front door cracked open under the heavy swing of the battering ram—it snapped loud and hard across the barren openness of the water, and Adelaide involuntarily jumped at the sharpness of the sound. There were shouts, shifting energies as people entered the house, all ready for anything.

It suddenly felt very, very cold. As a native New Yorker, Adelaide Macaraeg prided herself on her imperviousness to chills, but she couldn't stop herself from shivering as fingers of ice slipped underneath the layers of clothing.

A movement from the house caught her eye. Jack Dawson, looking sleek in his navy button-down and navy Kevlar vest emblazon with _FBI_, followed by Judith Eden, who had re-holstered her weapon and was zipping up her standard-issue FBI windbreaker over her own Kevlar vest. Dawson's face was impassive, but Eden looked particularly unhappy.

They weren't dragging out a man in handcuffs, and there weren't agents coming out to search the surrounding area for clues.

That wasn't a good sign.

"Fuller's dead," Dawson announced flatly, as soon as he got within speaking distance of Macaraeg. "Painted the walls with his own brains, by the looks of it."

Eden swore under her breath, looking out at the water. Mac couldn't tell if she was angry or sad.

"Well, then I guess it's good I'm here," Mac offered, unsure of what else to say.

Dawson nodded slightly, turning back to the house. The rest of the apprehension team were filing back out, their faces drawn into expressions ranging from disappointment to frustration. O'Donnell looked like he could punch something and Cruz looked like he could simply go to sleep for a week straight.

Mac went to the back of the van to gather her things. Dawson moved closer to Eden, who was still focusing on the tranquil inlet.

"I'm not saying it's an admission of guilt," he began, keeping his voice low so that no one could overhear them.

"But innocent men don't shoot themselves in the head when faced with the implication of a Federal crime," she finished for him, her brows forming a hard line across her forehead.

"If that's why he killed himself," Dawson added. "I mean, we weren't even looking at him as a suspect until about an hour ago."

"He knew," she returned, her voice flat with certainty. "He knew it was only a matter of time."

"We don't know that for sure, Jude—"

"Yes we do," she looked at him now, her big brown eyes filled with an unreadable emotion. "On the credenza, behind his chair. I saw it—a note. I didn't touch it, because I wanted forensics to handle everything before I contaminated the scene—but I saw it. And the first line read: _It was only a matter of time._"

* * *

"_Oh how many travelers get wear-y__  
__Bearing both their burdens and their scars?__  
__Don't you think they'd love to start all over__  
__And fly like eagles out among the stars…"_

_~Johnny Cash._

* * *

_***Author's Note: The story of Jude's reaction to the screaming pig is a moment lifted from my own life-though I was in the mountains between Las Vegas and L.A. with my roommate, who definitely hadn't been ready to handle my near panic-attack as we were stuck in traffic next to the screaming animal for over half an hour. I'm not sure why I feel the need to share that, other than to bring some kind of awareness to the Highly Sensitive Persons (HSPs) among us. If you think you might be an HSP, there are great resources out there that I'm happy to share-or if you simply want to learn more about HSPs and this biological trait which affects 1/5 of the world's population, I recommend the series of articles from Psychology Today, which can be found online.***_


	42. In the Twilight Kingdom

**In the Twilight Kingdom**

"_Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,__  
__Every poem an epitaph. And any action__  
__Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat__  
__Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.__  
__We die with the dying."_

_~T.S. Eliot._

* * *

_***Author's Note: Well, chickadees, we have reached the end of the line for this story. I want to take a moment now to say a huge, heartfelt THANK YOU to everyone who has left reviews so far, added this story to their favorites and/or followed it, or just read it at all. Half the fun in writing is having someone to share it with, and y'all have made the journey a very pleasant one. Merci, danke, grazie, gracias, toda raba, thank you, thank you, thank you.***_

* * *

_**Benjamin Fuller's House, Rural Virginia. (6 miles north of Quantico)**_

"Based on the congealment of the blood, I'd say he's had a little time to sit," Adelaide Macaraeg informed them, glancing up at the agents assembled around the scene, her eyes seeming even bigger now that half of her face was obscured by the protective mask over her nose and mouth. And this scene certainly wasn't a missing Rockwell painting—Fuller was seated in a straight-backed armchair with plush cushioning, neck craned back and death-glazed eyes fixed directly at the ceiling. She took in the details: his shirt buttoned all the way up, his slacks with a sharp, crisp crease down the front, his left hand on the armrest, fingernails clean and clipped. His right arm dangled to the ground and a hand gun lay carelessly just past his fingertips, ripped from his hand by gravity. The wall behind him held a credenza, with a few framed documents hanging at eye-level. Surprisingly, the blood spatter on the wall and credenza was minimal—a fine mist, hardly any actual bits of gore, all in all relatively clean, given the circumstances.

Something didn't sit right. Didn't _look_ right. Mac frowned slightly as she tried to piece it together. However, she continued with her task, glancing around for a thermostat, "The house is pretty warm...I'm afraid that's gonna screw around with trying to pinpoint an exact time of death."

"We know he was at Quantico until yesterday afternoon, at least," O'Donnell set his hands on his hips, giving her a slight nod. He was keeping his distance, even though he'd donned the forensic booties that allowed him to traverse the scene without tracking in new evidence. "Just do the best you can, we'll work with what we've got."

Mac nodded quickly, bending over to inspect the back of the chair while simultaneously avoiding the young man with a camera, who was photo-documenting the scene.

O'Donnell headed back into another area of the house, overseeing another set of agents, who were checking to make sure there weren't any booby traps on the property (a legitimate concern, given the similarities to the Replicator case). Mac had lost track of Mateo Cruz, but Dawson and Eden were still there, waiting to see what other discoveries she made.

Eden, now that she'd been given a set of gloves and had made sure the photographer documented the lay and location of the suicide note, was holding the letter in her hand—delicately, between her thumb and index finger, trying to avoid fine coating of blood that had misted across the paper. Dawson shifted closer to her, and she began to quietly read aloud.

"'It was only a matter of time. The Bureau built itself a gilded tower on the blood and backs of its people, grinding bone into stone….it was only a matter of time before the bones rose up and shook the walls of the tower.'"

"Jesus." Dawson commented quietly. "Creepy and poetic."

His partner gave a hum. "But it's only talking about the Bureau…not about himself, about his reasons—contrition, retribution, none of it."

Dawson was momentarily distracted by Adelaide Macaraeg, who'd stepped back, her face scrunched into a curious expression. Then she stopped, dropping into a crouch, peering up at the back of the chair from a different angle.

She popped back up again, fingers gingerly resting on either side of Benjamin Fuller's skull to gently tip his head forward.

"Shit." She announced. "This wasn't a suicide."

"What?" Judith Eden almost dropped the suicide note. Her free hand gestured haplessly towards the body. "But…you did a GSR test—"

"Yes, and it showed that he had gunshot residue on his hand," Mac nodded in the direction of Fuller's right hand, which had already been inspected and confirmed positive for GSR. "But that doesn't mean he shot himself. It just means he has GSR on his hand."

Dawson glanced around, "Either he shot the gun at something else—"

"Or someone else put it on his hand to make it look as if he fired the gun," Jude finished, her voice low and heavy with dread.

"C'mere," Mac was talking to the photographer now, jerking her chin towards the deceased. "Get some nice clean shots of this."

She waited until the photographer had taken several snaps before resuming her line of thought, "Fuller's hand is down by his side, the gun is on the floor next to it, his head tilted back—that would be consistent with the body's natural reaction once the shot has been fired. However, the angle…"

She lightly shooed the photographer out of the way, looking up at Eden and Dawson, silently waiting for them to get close enough to see the wounds. She gently titled Fuller's head back to its original position.

"The bullet entered his forehead at point-blank range," she lightly swirled her index finger over the area, not actually touching it. "You can see, from the stippling on the skin. Not uncommon for suicide victims. Though the fact that the entry wound is in the center of the forehead instead of the side is a bit…unusual, to begin with. But that's not where things get impossible."

Tilting Fuller's head forward again, she shifted to one side so that she could gingerly cup his forehead in her left hand, freeing up her right hand to motion to the points of interest, "As you can see, the bullet exits the skull here…but there's no bullet hole in the chair or the wall or even the floor. Because…"

She tilted the head further forward, right hand highlighting an area on Benjamin Fuller's back like Vanna White showing off a prize. "The bullet goes back into the body. Right between the shoulder blades."

"Odd angle," Dawson commented. "How is that even possible?"

"Allow me," Mac set Fuller's head back into its original position, pulling off her gloves. She stepped back, lightly placing her right hand on Dawson's right shoulder, reaching up with her left hand to grab the hair at the back of his head. She gently tugged, and he followed her lead—she pulled his head back until it almost touched the space between his shoulders. "Someone forced Fuller's head back."

"And put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger," Dawson concluded as Mac released him.

Mac stepped back, motioning towards the wall again, "Explains why the blood spatter was so light, and why it stops at such an odd point—there was somebody standing the way."

"Also explains why this suicide note doesn't actually read like a suicide note," Judith frowned slightly, turning her attention back to the sheet of paper. She held it up, between herself and the overhead light. Suddenly, the frayed edges of the paper were more note-worthy, "This came from a notebook."

She turned the page over slowly, her eyes focused on the top margins, "There are indentations, like something was written on the pages preceding and following it. It's part of a larger set of writings."

"He already sounds like a whack-job—a thousand-page manifesto probably isn't too far out of the realm of possibility," Dawson returned drolly. Judith dutifully returned the faux suicide note to Macaraeg, who by now had slipped on a fresh pair of gloves.

Mac grimaced slightly as she skimmed over the page. "Man. Agent Fuller had a flair for the dramatic, I'll give him that."

Dawson was already heading down the hallway, into the back part of the house, where the bedrooms were. Eden came after him, at a much slower pace (she was completely drained, physically and emotionally, and somehow that always seemed to exacerbate her limp).

She stopped in the doorway of the first room that Dawson had entered. It was a spare bedroom, set up as a study instead—almost Spartan in its furnishings, a single pine desk with a wooden chair and a lamp set to one side, though there wasn't much room for any other furniture, as the walls were lined with bookshelves, at least half of which were spiral-bound notebooks.

"Oh. My. God." Eden's eyes were the size of saucers as she stepped fully into the room, slightly dazed at the sight of so many journals. "How the bloody hell did this man ever pass a psych evaluation?"

"They aren't all rantings and ravings," Dawson informed her, flipping through a notebook from the top shelf. "These are notes from college courses—crime analysis."

He grabbed another notebook from the next shelf, "Chemistry…."

Another notebook. "Here's notes from when he entered Academy training."

"Meticulous little tyke, wasn't he?" Eden was moving around the room at a slow pace, her eyes roving the shelves, taking it all in.

Dawson was crouching now, taking a notebook from the bottom shelf and glancing through before returning it to its proper place. He stood up, waving his hand over the bookcase. "These are all course notes. Maybe he has each section assigned to a different theme."

"Most likely," Eden had stopped on the other side of the room, where actual printed books were kept. "This bookshelf is organized according to genre—there are manuals, a collection of other people's essays and biographies…this section is all old textbooks, in order of subject. Fuller definitely had a system."

"Meticulous." Dawson repeated the word. "Pretty sure that was in the profile."

Eden hummed in agreement. "And he's certainly a loner—I've yet to see a single photograph in this house, and it's obvious that he's the only one who lives here."

"Background in chemicals," Dawson cast a wary glance back to the shelf containing textbooks.

"Mid-level job, of no real importance," Eden looked up at the ceiling, recalling the profile. "Fuller's been with Cyber division for a few years—nothing big, no huge cases—looking at his record, you couldn't even tell if the man had ever actually left the building."

"So far, the BAU's batting a thousand," Dawson intoned, neither upset nor joyous over the fact.

Another hum from Eden.

"Here we go," she stooped in front of another bookcase, pulling out an old hard-bound copy of _Aesop's Fables_.

Dawson came closer, cocking his head to the side in confusion. "Gonna get in a little storytime there, Jude?"

"These books don't match," she was completely unfazed by his sarcasm, motioning to the row of books. "Everything he reads is technical, textbook, nonfictional—and here we have children's books, other works of fiction. And they're not even separated according to theme or genre."

She opened the large book—the interior had been carved out, and nestled inside were more notebooks.

"I think you just found our manifesto," Dawson informed him.

She handed him a notebook and took one for herself, sitting back on her bottom as she got comfortable—this was going to take a while, she could feel it.

"God dammit to hell." Dawson's voice was low, cracked with sadness.

She looked up at him, dark brows quirked downward in askance. With a heavy sigh, he handed her the notebook.

She began to read, and then she stopped. She looked back up at her team leader, her face clouded with worry and heartbreak. "What are you gonna do, boss?"

With the sigh of a regretful executioner, he shook his head, "The only thing I can do, Jude."

* * *

_**FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Understood, sir," Jessalyn Keller gave a curt nod, even though Jack Dawson couldn't actually see her, given the fact that he was calling her from Benjamin Fuller's house. She hung up with a sigh, looking over at Jonas Shostakovich, who was watching her with the intensity of a hawk.

"C'mon," was her only comment to him, and he understood.

They headed down the hallway—after Jess had arrived back at the Academy, Dawson had caught her up to speed on current events. Rossi and Reid had confessed to a connection between them and Linnea Charles, the dodgy reporter, and due to that confession, they'd been asked to hang around a while—though it hadn't really been a request and everyone understood that. Currently, Rossi and Reid were being held in separate rooms, to keep them from collaborating on any further details—at least until the Flying Js could get to the bottom of the whole thing with Linnea Charles and the email. The rest of the BAU had been sent home for the day, though Aaron Hotchner had very clearly expressed his displeasure at the detainment of his two agents.

With one last deep breath, Jessalyn Keller opened the door to the first room.

"Dr. Spencer Reid, you're under arrest for conspiracy to commit an act of terrorism against the federal government. Please turn around and place your hands behind your head."

~Le Fin.

* * *

"_Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid."__  
__~Frederick Buechner._

* * *

_***Author's Note: This story's sequel "The Highwaymen", will be here Fall 2015.***_


End file.
